


My Heart Is an Open Wound (And Love's a Messy Row of Stitches)

by Sparcina



Series: Iron Webs to Covet [11]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 2 x Tony Stark, Adult Peter, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, CEO Peter Parker, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Denial of Feelings, Desk Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time Bottoming, Flirting, Frottage, Heavy Petting, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Kink Exploration, Kissing, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mr. Stark-centric, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter-centric, Pining Peter, Post-Canon Fix-It, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Silver Fox Tony, Spanking, Switch Tony Stark, Time Travel, Twice the drama, Twink Peter, Twink Tony - Freeform, Window Sex, Young Tony-centric, switch peter parker, twice the fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25582933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: At 21 years old, Peter is the successful CEO of his own biochemistry firm. He’s not a heartbroken teen anymore. He's over Tony Stark.(He really isn’t.)Of course, things are never quite so simple. A glitch in time is all it takes, and suddenly Peter finds himself dealing with two Tonys: the man who turned him down years ago but can't seem to stay away—and a much younger, flirtier version of the genius, with an agenda of his own.*Starker Time Travel Fix-It #2*
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Tony Stark
Series: Iron Webs to Covet [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/779883
Comments: 103
Kudos: 413
Collections: A lire





	1. Peter — The Fragile Balance of Illusions

**Author's Note:**

> Question of the day: _which_ Tony is going to win Peter’s heart?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has put the past behind him, and that includes the torch he's once carried for Tony Stark. 
> 
> (Sometimes, the most dangerous lies are those you tell yourself.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l, amazing art, commissioned for this fic, is a creation of the talented **vanitasmorgue** , who can be found on tumblr.

__

_November 16, 2028_

Peter gave his office a critical once over. It was sparingly furnished, but vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows that granted quite a view, from the fortieth floor—the top floor of a tower he owned. At only twenty-one, he was the CEO of a biochemistry firm of his own making, sought after by the most powerful businesses all around the globe… and old enough to drink. Legally, at least.

He lifted the glass to his lips. The rich alcohol burnt down his throat, and the bitterness veered on the side of too much, but he’d taught himself to enjoy it years ago, and the habit was too deeply ingrained by now for his taste to change.

The glass itself was simple plastic, white with little purple bows. It used to hold small violet flowers called _violae_ , which had since withered away. The bouquet had been a gift from May. Did she know that in French, those flowers were called _pensées_ , ‘thoughts’? Peter watched the amber liquid swirl in the transparent glass, and smiled faintly at one little bow. Morgan had drawn a whole series all over the plastic. Peter remembered vividly the day she’d gifted it to him. The sun had been bright outside, a direct counterpoint to his mind haunted by shadows of _if only_ and _had I waited longer_.

Love hurt. And it hurt a whole lot more than getting bitten by a radioactive spider. Or buried under tons of concrete. _Or _dying_ —fading to dust on an alien world because someone else’s vision of equality and fairness was several degrees lower than yours on the scale of morality._

The burning sensation in his throat spread to his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could make out the bottle on his desk. A fancy, overpriced bottle. Considering his reluctance to buy anything expensive that didn’t benefit the firm or his employees, its origin was obvious.

The man who'd gifted it to him knew this. He probably knew, too, that Peter liked his alcohol a lot fruitier, but they’d met at enough Avengers _and_ business meetings over the years for him to have noticed how Peter stuck to scotch despite the decadent selection of berry-based, honey-flavored beverages available.

Peter savored his mouthful of scotch. Outside, rain poured steadily, and every shape and color coalesced into the vibrant, citywide mosaic of a face painted in tears. He untied the knot at the base of his throat and tossed the piece of silk over his shoulder. The dark-red tie landed across the back of his chair, half on both sides, quasi-perfect reflections of each other. His aim had always been freakishly good, even before he’d trained. Afterwards… He’d gotten better. Stronger. More agile, more perceptive. More sensitive in ways that were both useful, and embarrassing.

The glass cracked in his grip, one of the little blows splitting in two. He let out a shaky breath and loosened his hold on the plastic, heart pounding. He should think of the sun, but the rain was omnipresent, hammering against the bullet-proof windows like a hail of bullets.

Before he’d been told _no_ —before he’d had his heart broken in so many pieces he couldn’t feel it anymore—he’d considered this a challenge. To like what Tony Stark liked, to enjoy the bitterness of the older man’s favorite alcohol, if only because he’d never get to kiss the lingering warmth of Tony’s mouth otherwise.

The first couple of times, he’d choked and nearly spit it all back out. But this challenge mattered too much for this younger Peter to quit, and he’d made a point of building up a tolerance until one day, several months later, he’d been able to drink that liquid fire straight-faced and focus on something else beyond his violated taste-buds.

Like the faint trace of Tony’s mouth on the rim of the crystal glass. The shape of a wicked smile, or a caustic one. There were always subtle variations, and Peter sought out every version with a fluttering heart. Very few people noticed his little game. Natasha made the list, of course. And Tony… Tony may have simply done what Peter did best: turn a blind eye to the truth.

Pretending not to see, while Peter did his best pretending not to feel a single thing.

*

[Four years ago]

_“Mister Stark?”_

_“Come in, kid. I was just about to take a break.”_

_Which was probably a lie, but Peter was too nervous to banter with his mentor. Slowly, he stepped in Shuri’s lab, where he knew for a fact that Mr. Stark—Tony—was alone right now._

_A week ago, he’d turned seventeen. The world was still recovering in the aftermath of Thanos’s grand scheme of destruction, and Tony was one of the busiest persons around. On the 3 rd of May, most of the Avengers were gathered in Wakanda. It was hot and humid outside, almost too much for Peter, but the King’s palace where they were hosted was pleasantly cool. The guest’s wing was vast, and his own set of rooms ridiculously grandiose—he had his own spa, for crying out loud. The bedroom, though…Peter felt too small in it, and desperately alone in a bed made for two. He’d been feeling that way for a while. Even back at May’s. _

_He'd checked the age of consent in Wakanda the night before. He’d been hard and aching after a long soaking in the spa, drunk endorphins and his own boldness._

_It was seventeen._

_“What, no sandwich?”_

_Tony hopped from his stool, lips already curling up in a welcoming smile. His eyes were ringed with purple, but bright with humor and wits. He hadn’t had time to die the hair at his temples (or so he’d said), and Peter secretly wished the grey remained. His eyes zeroed on the faint stain on Tony’s shirt, right over his pectoral left. The urge to step closer enough to identify it by scent—or to stop pretending and just tear the fabric away to mouth at the warm, scarred skin where the arc reactor used to keep his heart safe from harm—rose and spread until his fingertips tingled._

_Summoning a relaxed smile took some effort, but he managed. He also remained (hid) in the doorway for a little while longer. He didn’t trust himself not to go totally off script despite having rehearsed this little speech a thousand times for tonight. Tony was fifty-three. Of course, the age difference was noticeable. There was no denying it. The saving grace was that Peter wasn’t an employee. He was Tony’s, but the relationship was off books, more of a… friendship with benefits._

_(Without the benefits painting the background of Peter’s dreams.)_

_“Didn’t think you’d be hungry,” he said, and entered a space that felt entirely too foreign right now._

_“Are you okay, kid?”_

_Tony wasn’t called a genius_ only _because he’d created a new element and saved the universe. He was good at all kinds of things, including reading people, and Peter… Peter had always been an open book, and in Tony’s presence, he came with annotations in the margins. Special cues, for a special man. In more ways than one, Tony had inked whole chapters of Peter’s own story simply by being in his life._

_But that wasn’t why Peter loved him._

_That wasn’t why it hurt._

_“I had… have, something to tell you.”_

_Tony gestured at his own stool, gaze intent. “I’m all ears.”_

_Peter hopped on it with no little trepidation. It was still a little warm from where Tony had been pouring over complex blueprints that looked like bioinformatics nanotech. Peter straightened his back, self-conscious about every cue. He couldn’t look any older than he was, or any more experienced, because he was neither. But he wasn’t your average seventeen-year-old. He was Spiderman. He’d died and come back to life. Although Tony had meant to keep out of harm’s way, Peter had played an active role in saving the universe. All that had to count for something, right?_

_When Tony’s expression of curiosity morphed into one of concern, Peter felt weak in the knees. His palms were all sweaty, like he was twelve, about to confess to his first crush. And he was about to confess._

_The thing was, Tony was so much more than a simple crush._

_Peter shifted on the stool. His throat was dry, and he swallowed. He heard his throat click. Tony probably heard it too, in the sudden quiet of the lab. This was it, Peter thought. His first and last chance, all wrapped up in a moment of extreme vulnerability._

_“I love you, Tony.”_

_The words came out strong. Steadier than his reflection had ever managed in the mirror. He didn’t stammer, didn’t falter—he didn’t even blush._

_Tony opened his mouth, but no sound came out. It was the first time Peter had ever seen the man he loved at a loss for words._

_He forged ahead. “It’s not a crush,” he said with the assurance of long-held conviction. “I’ve had a crush on MJ, at school. I even had a crush on Dr. Strange, for a while. I… I’m not as experienced as you…” This was pretty much a stretch, considering he’d barely given his only date a peck on the mouth, and was up to one and a half finger up his ass and still hadn’t found his prostate, but the statement in itself wasn’t a lie. “I’ve lived through the whole restructuration of the universe, though, and—”_

_“Kid.”_

_Peter trailed off. It was a force of habit, to listen when Tony talked. And Tony was talking._

_“Kid, listen…”_

_Peter had been wrong to think the age difference would be the greatest obstacle: Tony barely mentioned it in passing, before moving on to another argument. And another. And Peter… He could only listen in silence and take the blows, one after the other, shoulders tensing as each kind word of rejection slashed through him more sharply than any blade. It wasn’t the age difference, Tony insisted, although Peter should think about what would happen when_ he _grew a little older, and his partner reached retirement age. The disbalance in power mattered a lot more._

_“There are other internships I can apply to,” Peter cut in, and he did sound a little hurt, but everything worth having was bound to leave marks. He’d thought about this before. Over and over until his head hurt and his heart ached. “I love working in the lab with you, but I can perfectly well start my own firm and…”_

_“Of course you can, Peter.”_

_Tony sounded so tired. Weary but sure. Confident in Peter’s capabilities, like always. He’d also called him_ Peter _, which he seldom did._

_“But Peter…”_

_The use of his first name_ twice _in as many statements. That had to be a record, noted a tiny voice in the back of his mind._

_“This isn’t…”_

_Peter felt like crying. He knew that tone. That edge to Tony’s voice was also familiar—he’d traced its echo with his own lips once, kissing it off the rim of a scotch glass._ _The brightness in Tony’s had dimmed to a distant flicker. Walls going up, Peter thought from far, far away._

_“I’m not attracted to you.”_

_Peter’s breath caught. Whatever mixture of air existed in this foreign lab in this foreign land, it wasn’t a match to what his lungs required. His own walls amounted to ruins, torn down by the hope clawing at his insides. A wounded hope that could sense the end._

_He gripped the edged of the stool. The leather gave._

_“Pepper,” he said, because he was desperate, and still an idiot._

_Tony inched closer, just enough to grip his hand. Peter’s hand was limp at his side, and it remained this way as Tony squeezed it a little too hard, before letting go in a hurry. Like it’d been a mistake. Peter knew it wouldn’t bruise. He wished it could._

_Tony—Mr. Stark—turned away._

_“I care for you. You must know that." He exhaled sharply. "I invented time travel because of you, Peter.”_

_Peter. Couldn’t. Breathe. Three times was not the fucking charm at all. He stared down at his feet. He could brush the floor with the tip of his shoes, but it felt infinitely far. Parsecs away. His skin was the fragile coating of a star, and his insides a pit of ceaseless heat that kept burning. His eyes stung. He wanted to move, wanted to touch even more than he wanted to breathe, but there was no courage left, only crippling doubts and regret. The galaxy he’d tried to fit in was spiraling out of reach, accelerating away as the universe kept expanding, farther and farther away until the idea of touch, of any connection between them, became little more than that—an idea._

_Tony stood several feet away, but the distance between them felt infinite._

I love you _, Peter thought. But his words held no power. No appeal._ He _had nothing to offer, no worth of his own._

_Tony turned halfway back. He had a hand over his eyes. A dismissal. More walls going up._

_“I love you, Peter, but not like you do.”_

_Tony said those words softly, his voice close to a whisper, but Peter recoiled as though the words had been shouted right into his ear. A hole spread in his chest from his heart outwards, and he gasped. His throat hurt. His face burnt. He couldn’t feel his heart, only a growing pain framed in barbels of denial. He felt hollow. Untethered._

_It wasn’t unlike being back on Titan._

*

Watching the one person you love fade away in your arms went a long way in chasing away the fear of rejection. Tony Stark had spent seven whole days in a coma after he’d activated the Infinity Stones to make a final wish.

This had been the single longest week in Peter’s entire existence. He’d been so terrified he’d lost his mentor, his friend, the person he’d secretly loved for years, that once Tony had woken up, defying all odds, he’d decided not to wait for a couple more years like he’d initially planned. There had been talks of going to Wakanda. As the days rolled by and the details of the trip were hashed out, Tony began to smile again. And then came the hugs. A lot more than before. Freely offered, without any awkwardness. They lasted longer. Sometimes, Peter thought he spied a flicker of longing in Tony’s eyes when they parted.

He’d pushed his luck. He’d rolled those cursed dice numbered against him and hoped they’d show the right combination. One chance in a billion.

He should have known better—Parker’s luck sucked no matter what.

Tony hadn’t been mean, of course. He’d let him down gently, because Tony loved him.

Just not like Peter loved him.

Karen’s voice yanked him back to the present. “Incoming call from Michelle the Terror, Peter.”

Peter shook himself. The glass was almost empty, and his mouth tasted like ashes. “Put her on. Audio only.”

He wasn’t in the mood to be treated like a seventeen-year-old, which would be how MJ would diagnose his drinking. She may not be able to kill the next ‘narcissistic corporate piece of trash’ with a wooden spoon, but she was keenly observant in true Black Widow fashion.

As for Peter, he should know better than to wallow in nostalgia. What was the point of keeping some distance between Tony and himself if his mind kept returning to _before_ , when he didn’t know yet that his hopes would be crushed? He _knew_ better. He’d worked on this. Goddamn it, he had.

Drinking scotch never helped, and he should regift those bottles. Last thing he heard, Ned’s roommate was fond of scotch. Unless it was rum?

“Hey, Smartass.” MJ’s drawl carried the usual, casual note of boredom.

Peter wasn’t fooled. “Did I miss Thai night or something?” He leaned back into the window. It felt cold, and he shivered. He’d always been extra sensitive to shifts in temperature. “Miss you too, MJ.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“I’m busy, you know it.”

“I think you’re confusing ‘busy’ and ‘hiding’.”

MJ sighed loudly, a sound rendered perfectly by the high-tech system overseen by Karen.

Peter set his glass down and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, feeling restless. He needed to move. Do something useful with all that excess energy. He hadn’t originally planned to go on patrol tonight, not with the two meetings set for early tomorrow and the experience awaiting his input in the lab one floor down, but he carried his suit around for a reason. Besides, the Iron Spider was discrete.

Tony Stark’s wits and devotion wrapped up intimately all over his body.

Peter grimaced at himself. So, this was going to be one of those nights. The urge to drink scotch should have been a neon sign, but he hadn’t bothered recognizing it. So much for being the ‘new genius’ all the magazines gushed about.

“… Peter?”

“Sorry.” He tore his eyes away from the bottle. “You were saying?”

There was a beat of silence. On MJ’s part, that never boded well.

“I hope you’re thinking back on your latest lover, ’cause else I’ll be very sad for you.”

 _Ouch_.

He thought fast. “I’m considering going back to that club you showed me two months ago.”

“Oh, the one where you turned down the five different cute guys who offered to get you drinks and give you head because you preferred mopping?”

He didn’t know why he bothered lying. Especially to her. “I’m… over him.” If inanimate objects had been able to interact with their surroundings, there was no doubt that bottle of scotch would be sneering in disbelief. “It’s just that sometimes, I…”

“Relapse.”

Peter was so glad he’d decided on audio only.

“Look, MJ—”

“Look, Fanboy.” MJ sounded like she did when she considered punching some reason into him. “Ned and I are going out of town this weekend, and you’re coming with us. I planned to ask nicely, for once, but there was that odd note of yearning in your voice when you picked up, so the option to stay in New York is not open to you.”

“I’m busy. For real,” Peter protested, but truth be told, he’d been meaning to go on that kind of escapade with his two closest friends. A chuckled bubbled in his chest. “But I’ll go. If I get my assistant to cover for me—”

“No buts. And please try to get laid by then, or you’re going to be insufferable.”

 _Click_.

“Michelle the Terror has hung up,” Karen stated with a note of disapproval.

Peter had outgrown that particular kind of outrage ages ago.

“It’s fine, Karen.”

“Are you okay, Peter?”

It was only the second time she’d asked tonight.

“I’m fine.”

Karen probably could tell he was lying, but she wouldn’t insist. He dug the heel of one palm into his eyes, bracing himself for the incoming headache. He should eat something. Superhuman strength didn’t mean he couldn’t get drunk _or_ hangover, which he’d learnt the hard way at a frat party a couple years ago.

“Show me the experiment’s current status, please?”

The data materialized in front of his eyes. Peter played around with the holographic display for a little while, but he wasn’t in a creative mood, and decided to review the finer points of tomorrow’s discussions with a new investor. He should probably brush up on his German, even though that particular businessman spoke fluent English.

“It’s almost midnight,” Karen called out.

Wasn’t it nine a couple minutes ago? With a shrug, Peter banished the file with a flick of the wrist and called up his emails. Being CEO came with a lot of responsibilities and long hours, but he liked it. He was good at it, too. He hadn’t needed Tony’s help to found Parker Industries or reach his current position.

Of course, _thank you but no, Tony,_ resulted in his former mentor injecting plenty of capital in Peter’s company anyway and mentioning his ‘bright young colleague’ every time Ms. Potts force-walked him to a gala.

Peter had attended one such event once. He’d been eighteen, then. He’d thought he was over Tony.

A serious miscalculation on his part.

Slamming shut that particular door with the force of habit, Peter grabbed the fragile plastic glass decorated with its broken ribbon and downed the rest of the scotch in one go. The burning sensation helped ground him. A paradox. Nothing unusual there, considering that his life was teeming with them.

He was heading for the door when the back of his neck prickled. Thunder roared outside, but Peter hardly heard it. Something was wrong.

“Karen?”

“There’s an intruder in the corridor,” Karen chimed at the same time, confirming his suspicions. “He seems to have appeared out of nowhere. My scanners check out, so he must be using a teleportation device of some…”

Karen lapsed into silence.

She always finished her sentences.

“Karen.” Peter fell into a defensive stance, ready to call on the suit at a moment’s notice. “Talk to me.”

“I’m working on a plausible explanation.”

The door opened before she could.

It didn’t burst out of its hinges. There was no fire, no crafty explosion, no alien god wielding an equally alien weapon, only a hand on the doorknob and a normal push. Five fingers, tanned skin—a human hand.

Peter froze. If whoever was standing on the other side of the door had been granted access, he must know them. His door was made of a reinforced steel and vibranium alloy, and hooked up to a biometrics scanner that was set to let in only a select group of exactly four people.

Tony had insisted.

“That’s way more fun than what I had planned for the night.”

The man who spoke looked familiar. _Too_ familiar. Peter had seen him before. He had pictures of him saved on a private folder on his computer at home. Sometimes, on nights such as this one, he’d trace the pixelized smile with a finger, and wonder. _If only. Had I waited longer…_

Of course, this man’s biometrics checked out. Peter wished he could blame alcohol, but he knew his own limits, and he hadn’t drunk enough scotch to experience hallucinations. Tony’s scotch.

Tony was standing _right in front of him._

“Well, hello there.”

It was Tony, but it also wasn’t Tony, except that it _was._ Another paradox, right here. This Tony was so fucking young, and devastatingly handsome—not in the way his older self was, but Tony had always been Tony. Witty, flirty, impossible to ignore or dismiss. Peter put _this_ Tony in his early twenties. The timeline he knew by heart popped to the forefront of his mind. This Tony had graduated from MIT years ago. Maria and Edward Stark were probably dead already. Jarvis—the actual Jarvis, Peter thought with a bitten-off hysterical laugher—might still be alive.

This Tony had not met Peter before. And his first impression was vastly different from that of his older counterpart.

“I’ve always had a thing for a cute twink in a suit, but I’m sure you'll look even better without it.”

Peter blinked in shock. As pick-up lines went, this one was truly horrible. But this was Tony. A crude, raw version of the man Peter knew, barely of age himself, but this ghost from the past was—would be—the man he loved.

“What are you doing here?”

Tony stuck his hands in his jeans pocket and looked him over, _again_ , with his head cocked thoughtfully. “So, this is what 2028 looks like.”

Was he dreaming? Peter thought about pinching himself, but there was no need—this couldn’t be a dream. Even the worst nightmares he’d had, and he’d had plenty of those, didn’t make his head spin like that. His heart was beating so fast it occurred to him that passing out might just become a thing.

“How did you end up here?”

“I’ll do you one better: how do you know me?”

Peter clammed up in half a second. “I don’t know you."

“Oh, really.” Tony walked towards him, or rather, strutted. A bang fell over his brow, and he smiled—the wicked grin that only seldom graced Mr. Stark’s lips nowadays. His smile widened, as if he, too, could read all the annotations scribbled in the tense lines of Peter’s face. “Is that why you’re shaking? Or looking at me like I’m good enough to eat?”

The restlessness Peter was feeling not so long ago had shifted to something a lot more dangerous. “I’m…” He trailed off. Tried again. Tony was thumbing at the hem of his shirt. It was tight on him, and the red scrawl on it read _Black Sabbath_. Fuck, was it the _same_? Peter couldn’t tell. His palms began to sweat. He could hardly feel his face anymore. It reminded him of the time he’d— “This… You can’t be here.”

There were many ways to interpret that.

Tony’s expression didn’t offer any clue about his own interpretation.

“How old am I now?” he asked, his tone pleasant, painfully neutral, as though they were discussing regular physics.

Peter’s lips thinned to a faint line.

“Fifty-eight? Old as fuck, but not impotent yet, hopefully.” His eyes blazed with heat. “Are we a thing? _We_ should be a thing.”

Everything was going too fast, and Peter had lived through several major world-changing events and dipped his toe in time travel without feeling this out of his depth. He was shaking. All of the walls he’d carefully erected over the years were coming down again, and fast.

_Get a hold of yourself!_

The voice of reason sounded suspiciously like MJ.

Peter took another step back and felt the back of his thighs hit the edge of his desk. Tony’s eyes remained trained on him. Tony. Mr. Stark. Peter took the executive decision that from now on, _Tony_ could only refer to the time-displaced visitor, whereas the _Tony_ he knew would have to go back to being _Mr. Stark_.

“Why are you here?” The metal of the desk dug into his thighs. His breath hitched. He _was_ going to pass out. Or throw up. Or both. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Tony moved closer still, drawing all the oxygen to him. “To answer your questions, hotshot: I don’t know. Improbable, I’m aware. As for this lovely setting… It’s your office, I assume? In any case, feel free to bend me over the desk. I usually top with men, but I’d make an exception for you.”

Nausea gave way to something else entirely, and Peter really hated his body right now. _Traitor_.

“So, are you an item?” Tony pressed. “Old me and you?”

He was close. Too close.

Peter’s dick throbbed.

“I seriously doubt he would be jealous. Special circumstances and all. Or we could make it a threesome. Doesn’t bother me.”

Peter was surprised he hadn’t run away yet. Perhaps it had something to do with how weak his legs felt. The room was spinning, and that usually happened when he was swinging from rooftop to rooftop, not on the perfectly level floor of his office. “We aren’t…” Why was he even answering the fucking question? _Stop it, stop it!_ He didn’t stop. “He doesn’t love me. Or want me back.” He winced at his own words.

Tony looked unimpressed. “Well, he’s an idiot.”

“You realize you’ve just insulted yourself, right?” Peter pointed out in a last-ditch attempt to defuse the tension.

The younger man got a calculated—and very familiar look—in his eyes. “My old self can go fuck himself.”

It was unfair, really, how Tony could project so much cockiness when he was displaced in space _and_ time, while Peter himself, now an accomplished businessman with more sexual and romantic experience than he’d ever thought he’d get, was back to being _Mister Stark_ ’s flustered, virginal, head-over-heels-in-love mentee. 

His throat locked up, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. “I… Just, sit down, tell me what happened, and we’ll figure out a way to… to get you back to your own… time.”

The way Tony narrowed his eyes at him, daring, and oh, _interested,_ made it clear that the whole thing was probably going to go sideways, and not on the time-manipulation front. Which. Okay, Peter had to convince his legs to move and get out here. Or get Tony to leave, whichever came first.

(He could swing out of the window, too. But only as a last resort—this was the fortieth floor, and Peter was still in that particular closet where _Tony_ was concerned.)

“The UST must have killed that idiot,” Tony said airily. “Older me, I mean. Have you looked at yourself?”

That headache Peter had been dreading flared to life beneath his temples. He needed fresh air. Or less Tony. Definitely the latter.

 _Lies_.

“The age difference used to run in the other direction.”

“Perhaps I grew senile before my time. Pun intended.” Tony took a step forwards, and God, now he was so close to Peter they could have touched in a great many places if either of them had made a move. “I’d like to kiss you.”

Peter didn’t react. _Couldn’t._ The amusement and curiosity in Tony’s eyes were now laced with something that resembled concern. He raised a hand and let it hover in the air, an inch from Peter’s chest. Peter shuddered. Tony smelled like alcohol and cigarette smoke, like Cologne and sweat, and it was at once so different and so similar to Mr. Stark’s scent that his brain crashed for a little while.

Tony waited for it to reboot, those too-intelligent eyes taking every cue Peter couldn’t think to hide.

“Are you going to slap me if I kiss you?” Fingertips brushed against the thin fabric of his shirt, sending his heart into overdrive. “’cause I wouldn’t be entirely against it, but I’d rather ease you into the most wonderful sex of your life. What’s your name?”

Peter heard a crash, followed by Karen’s worried voice. The smell of scotch drifted to his nostrils, strong and overwhelming. The bottle, he realized belatedly. When he found his voice at last, it came out hoarse, unrecognizable. 

“Peter.”

The single word was a prayer. A plea to let go—or to devour him.

_If only…_

“ _Well, I’m delighted_ to meet you, Peter.”

Tony had never sounded so pleased with _him_. Not like that, anyway.

He leaned forwards and rose on his toes. His lips brushed Peter’s, soft and wet. A question. Peter had only ever felt the outline of those lips. The suggestion of so many kisses—dirty, loving, gentle. He shouldn’t do this to himself. _Or_ to Mr. Stark.

“I really grow up into an asshole, don't I?”

Tony began to pull back. Questions upon questions lurked in his eyes, multiplying as the tension grew and the silence became a tangible thing. Suffocating. Peter was back on Titan, but it wasn’t him who was fading. 

He grabbed Tony by the belt and pulled hard—a little too hard, but Tony only let out a pleased groan as their lips met. Their teeth clashed. Tony pressed his lithe body into his own, grinding their erections together, and God, Peter hadn’t been ready for that either. Like that day in Shuri’s lab, he just laid back and _took_ it, parting his lips at the first press of an inquisitive tongue, rocking his hips into the thigh pressed just so against his crotch, holding on to Tony’s shoulders for dear life as the other man licked into his mouth. Tony’s own hands were not idle, moving up and down his sides, and then further back, under his shirt, caressing over the knobs of his spine, pressing into his shoulder blades, mapping every inch of his back, nimble fingers that felt foreign, too soft—not enough calluses yet.

Eventually, the sound of ripped fabric registered.

Tony chuckled against his lips. “That’s a handy trick.” Tony flicked out his tongue and licked at the string of saliva linking their mouths. His eyes were all pupils—a famous look that had never been directed at Peter before. “Please destroy my clothes. And leave as many marks as you want.” He paused, and took hold of Peter’s hands, uncurling his fingers one by one, kissing the knuckles as he did. “ _Ravish me_.”

Tony’s mouth latched onto his throat, and Peter keened, a pained, vulnerable sound he couldn’t keep in. God, he wanted. He wanted to do exactly what Tony had suggested: drag his nails down that unmarked chest that had yet to scar, watch the slow reddening of the skin, the blatant display of _his_ claim on _him_. He wanted to bury his face in Tony’s groin and bruises so vivid on the delicate skin of his inner thighs that it would take a whole _week_ to fade. He was that close to take his impossible visitor’s up on his offer and strip him naked—before bending him over his desk and burying himself into him, marking him from the inside, too.

The last tread of his self-control grew taunt, about to snap.

“You…” He tried to catch his breath, but Tony saturated his senses, and those senses were dialed up to one hundred. They always were, where Tony was closed. Mr. Stark. Tony. Oh God. “I should…” He had to leave. Hurting Tony, Mr. Stark, any of them, because his self-control was shot to hell—that was not an option. This wasn’t merely about _him_. “We have to stop. I’m going... I'm afraid I'll hurt you.”

Tony looked unconvinced, and _that_ gave Peter the necessary incentive to push him back.

“Karen. Don’t let him leave,” he told the AI, and fled the room faster than a normal human could.

“I’ll do my best.”

At least, he left through the door.

He climbed down the stairs as fast as he could. He was halfway down the building when his legs gave under him. He sank to his knees and dragged himself to the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. The staircase was completely silent. His beat erratically, and for a moment there, he wondered if he was going to bypass the passing out stage entirely and go straight into cardiac arrest. He could hear his voice still, _Tony’s_ , the seductive words, the hungry touch, the impossibility of it all.

Pinching himself only hurt more.

 _Breathe_.

Mr. Stark’s voice, from a memory fifteen months ago, when Peter had slept in the Tower after a long night of patrol. The couch had smelled like Mr. Stark. Peter had rubbed his cheek against the greasy stain before he’d passed out from exhaustion. Despite the comforting scent enveloping him, he’d dreamt of Titan again.

_It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe. You’re in Stark Tower. Thanos is dead._

The hand on his shoulder had been rough but warm. Dust couldn’t cling to those fingers calling him back to the present.

_I’m right here, kid. We’re both alive. I have you._

He’d never been over him, had he?

The realization hit Peter hard, loaded with several years’ worth of illusions. All this time, he’d just pretended, or rather, kept on pretending. So long as a sliver of hope remained, so long as it survived—despite all evidence to the contrary—it couldn’t be entirely crushed.

And he couldn’t move on.

He threw his head back and squeezed the tears that threatened to spill over. Counting down from twenty didn’t help. He focused on the bitter note of scotch lingering on his tongue—half-buried beneath Tony’s taste from thirty-odd years ago. A paradox, and the hope living on within, writhing in ashes. A lingering dream that opened wide every scar inside. 

_Lies_.

He didn’t move for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My level of emotional investment varies from fic to fic, probably because I have to keep _some_ for my novels, and this story has sunk its plot-y claws in my heart. It's basically a prompt I gave myself—a prompt that has since run away with me.


	2. Young Tony — The Sublime Interlude in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony isn't too fond of being locked up. The young woman called MJ doesn't like him at all. As for Peter... He's so easy to read. And Tony wants to devour him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note** : At the end of Endgame, in 2023, Peter is 16, Mr. Stark (still alive, because this is a fix-it) is 53. This story is set 5 years later, which puts Peter at 21 and Mr. Stark at 58. Young Tony is 23 when he meets 21-year-old Peter. Roll with that bun, my cinnamons.

_November 16, 2028_

2028 was both worse and better than he’d expected. Not that thought about this specific year before today.

Today, the sixteenth of November—thirty-five years into the future. Relatively speaking, of course, but still. This was the future.

He’d kill for a smoke right now.

“Karen?”

The disembodied voice didn’t reply. Tony flopped down on the bed and propped his shoes on the bedside table. Being locked up irked him, no matter how lavish the room, or futuristic the setting. It reminded him too much of his old man's attempts to control him. The fact that Edward Stark had been rotting away in his overpriced coffin for two/thirty-seven years didn’t exactly wipe away the bitter memories.

Still. 2028. If the cute couple he’d fucked last night had told him that he’d travel in the future come the morning and meet a very handsome young man who had been—would be? this was getting a little annoying—rejected by an older version of himself, well… He would have assumed they’d taken something a whole lot stronger than plain ol’ weed.

Yet here he was, in the future, trapped in a room somewhere in between the thirty-seventh and the forty-second floor of an office tower. He’d spent a good fifteen minutes staring out the window, scrutinizing this altered version of New York. The landscape had changed a lot. There was more of everything, and everything was taller and larger. The cars appeared to be faster, but their design was kind of hard to study from a bird's view. There were definitely more people. Some of them, he even knew.

Like Old Tony, who owned that fancy glass tower 7.2 miles to the north-east.

Seriously. Stark Tower.

It sounded like something straight from his father’s wet dreams.

“Who are you?” he tried again.

No response. Tony huffed in irritation and rolled onto his side, propping his head onto one hand. He worded his next question carefully, and when he spoke up, he did so directing his gaze to the door—even though the voice seemed to originate from the ceiling, the cute twink had talked like ‘Karen’ was everywhere. An artificial intelligence? 

“Are you going to ignore me unless I try to hurt myself?”

“I’m not allowed to answer your questions.”

 _Allowed_. An interesting choice of words. And also, a hint that the handsome man in the suit—Peter—wanted to limit the ripples his untimely presence may cause.

Which brought him to his next question.

“Do you know how I arrived here? I told the truth earlier: I have no idea how it happened.”

No answer was forthcoming.

Tony rubbed at the bridge of his nose, annoyed but mostly intrigued. Faced with a disappointing lack of distractions, a locked door, and unbreakable windows—which were too high anyway—he began sorting through the more obvious mysteries. 

Question 1: How had he ended up here? Hypothesis #1: the new computer he’d been working on in his lab had opened a wormhole overnight. Probability: highly improbable. Hypothesis #2: there was higher technology at work. Probability: relatively high.

Question 2: Why was Old Tony uninterested in Peter? Hypothesis #1: Old Tony had no taste. Probability: highly improbable, should Old Tony have retained even a figment of his current personality. Hypothesis #2: Peter was mistaken, and Old Tony merely feigned disinterest because of the age difference. Probability: moderately probable. Right now, Tony couldn’t picture any version of himself saying _no_ to something (or someone) he wanted because of social conventions, but everything was possible, he supposed—f he was exposed to semi-lethal doses of radiation, or something.

Question 3: Why was Peter enamored of Old Tony? Finally, an obvious one. Hypothesis: Old Tony really was as irresistible as his younger self, which probably meant that the answer to Question 2 was Hypothesis #2. Probability: very high.

Question 4: Why was Peter so strong and fast? Tony was all for it, but he’d like to know why. He was a scientist at heart, after all. Hypothesis: Peter had been artificially enhanced, like Captain America. Probability: moderate. There may be a thousand other explanations.

His stomach growled. A quick tour down memory line told him that the last time he’d eaten went back to before the threesome.

“I’m hungry,” he called out.

“There will be food brought to you soon.”

“Thank you, Karen,” Tony said in his best you-know-you-like-me voice.

“You won’t get any favors from me," the AI was quick to reply.

Tony shook his head in a mixture of wonder and amusement. By now, he was 99% sure that either Peter or Old Tony had designed Karen—managed not only to create an AI, but to give it a personality. And the sass made the balance tip in Old Tony’s favor.

Tony took off his watch and tossed it in the air. Caught it one-handed, and threw it again, higher. “You’re loyal to Peter. I get it.”

He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. There certainly was something compelling about the brown-eyed, brown-haired man he’d kissed earlier. The kiss itself rated quite high in Tony’s book, despite Peter’s skills being barely above average. There had been raw hunger in it, a clear-cut desperation that Tony hadn’t deserved... yet. Tony had just had to push a few buttons, and voilà. Peter was just so full of them. Triggers, all with his name carved on them. _Stark's property._

His cock twitched in interest. The unexpected show of super-strength really did it for him. 

_I’m afraid to hurt you._

Tony recalled the contradictory urges in Peter’s eyes with unerring clarity. There had been two words on the tip of his own tongue. 

_Hurt me._

Tony had never been afraid of pain. The unknown thrilled him—and Peter made for a most delicious puzzle. The fact that Tony himself wasn’t quite as much of a mystery to Peter just heightened his interest.

“Food’s coming in.”

Tony shot to his feet, but the door only opened a fraction to let in a tray. Tony swore colorfully as the door closed in his face.

And then, the scent of food drifted to his nostrils. He crouched to pick up the tray. Fast food: a double cheeseburger that looked the right side of greasy, and crispy hot fries. To the side, one coffee that smelled heavenly, black. No sweets.

Fifty-five years later, and his tastes had remained the same.

A little bemused and that little more intrigued, he picked up the cheeseburger.

*

_November 17, 2028_

Their first meal together wasn’t exactly of the planned variety. Although, there was plenty of variety on the culinary front: pizza, burgers, fries, sushi, and a full bowl of vegetables. All in all, everything he liked, minus the plain stuff.

He noticed the selection absentmindedly, smiling that secretive, daring smile that drove Jarvis up the walls, and waited, dismissive of his hunger. Curiosity, he’d once told a particularly dumb one-night-stand before showing them the door, could keep him running for days on end. Food was overrated.

The door opened again, and remained open long enough for someone to slip in.

Unfortunately, it wasn't Peter.

“At last, a human being,” he drawled dramatically. “Do come in. There’s plenty of food for two.”

“What the hell, Stark?!”

“I take it you know me?” Tony exclaimed, delighted.

“I know _of_ you.” The young woman’s words dripped with venom. "And I’m not here to entertain you, so cut the bullshit.”

Tony affected boredom as he flicked invisible dust off the sleeve of his shirt. “Do you have a name?”

“How the fuck are you here?”

Tony didn’t know her enough to tell, but there seemed to be concern underlying all that anger.

“Peter asked the same question,” he said, nonchalant as you please. “I gather he hasn’t solved that particular riddle yet? Unless he hasn’t told you?” He shrugged. “Which would make sense, if he hasn’t mentioned my visit. I suppose I can be…” He darted out his tongue and licked his lower lip, making a show of it. “…distracting.”

“Fuck you, Stark.”

Tony was charmed. The woman wore trousers that were at least a size too large, a sweater that hurt his sense of fashion and a pair of old tennis, and he wanted to put her in a black tong, with a matching half corset that ended just under the tempting swell of her breasts, making it easy to suck at her taut nipples while he tied the laces. Her hair was already perfectly un-styled, a wild mane that he could tug on to get her going—or watch from afar as she pinned him down with five-inch Louboutin heels. She would rock the dominatrix look.

“What are you staring at?”

Contempt had replaced anger. Tony sat straighter. If he hadn’t been so intent on pursuing the hot thing who was in love with his older counterpart, he might have tried to play with this one a little, push her around until she snapped at him and left or yanked down his pants and rode him hard on that very chair. Going by the way she kept glaring at him like he was a stain on an otherwise perfectly clean surface, he could tell the scales might not have tipped in favor of sex, which only made the challenge more interesting.

In another life, perhaps.

“What do you know of my older counterpart?” he asked, and picked up a fry.

The young woman wrinkled her nose in clear disgust. “Don’t worry, you’re still the same asshole.” She strode toward him and slammed her palms down on the table, upsetting the cutlery. “What do you want from him?”

Tony didn't budge. “Nothing that he doesn’t give me willingly.”

“This isn’t funny! Do you have any idea of the mess you’ve created?”

“I presume you’re talking of an emotional one?”

If looks could kill, he’d probably be lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

“Listen to me very carefully.”

“I’m all ears.”

She leaned forwards. Weaker men might have been intimidated. “I don’t know why he hasn’t sent you back yet because it's certainly doable—”

“Well, I have my suspicions—”

“But if you hurt him any more than you already had, I’m going to take that spoon over there and scoop your balls from your body and feed them to you.”

Tony made a show of widening his eyes in mock fear. “I’ve done nothing yet.”

“Don’t play coy with me." The woman stuck a finger under his nose. "Just being there is hurting him, and I know you know why.”

“Because he’s in love with Old Me." _Obviously_ , he didn't add.

His interlocuter opened her mouth—to spew some more vitriol at him, no doubt—but the door opened again, cutting her off before she could start.

Peter came through.

Tony pushed his chair back and stood up. He made a point never to stand, not for anyone. He’d insulted several important people that way. But Peter... He required a very specific courtship. Devotion. Or a show of it, at any rate.

Sadly, Peter's eyes didn't linger on him.

“MJ! What are you doing here?”

MJ, as was apparently her name, rolled her eyes. “You didn’t come to our getaway weekend. I called you twice, and so did your other best friend. Karen’s a good girl, unlike you.”

Peter sputtered the beginning of an apology, and Tony just watched, curious and amused, as MJ shot him one last glare before turning all of her formidable anger towards Peter.

“You should have told us.” She made a wild, violent gesture towards Tony. “And he shouldn’t be here," she added coldly.”

“Yeah.” Peter sounded tired. “This isn’t exactly something I planned.”

The silence that followed was heavy with things unsaid. Tony sank back into his chair, barely resisting the urge to cross his arms. He wanted those eyes back on him, dazzled, heavy-lidded. Brimming with hunger, like the other night. Burning with desire for him.

“Have you talked to Old Me?”

There was no answer.

“I’ll take that as a no, then. That’s okay. Sometimes, I don’t want to talk to myself either.”

Peter dug his palm into his eyes and sighed. “Please leave us, MJ.”

 _Bingo_. Tony kept his face blank.

MJ didn't move.

“That’s not a good idea and you know it.”

“Yeah, I do,” Peter agreed. “The food’s getting cold. You should eat.”

The latter remark was obviously addressed at Tony.

“I’m not hungry.”

Peter made an inarticulate noise of irritation and dropped his hand to indicate the door.

“MJ, please go. We’ll talk later.”

“You better call both of us tonight or I’m going to him.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “I will call you.”

The promise was made a bit hastily, in Tony’s opinion. It seemed as though Peter, for all his talk about sending him back to his own time, wasn’t exactly eager to do so. Unless it wasn’t Old Tony who’d cracked time travel? Tony gave a pointed look at the fork in his fist. Yeah, right. If someone figured out how to hijack the fourth dimension, it would be him.

The door closed quietly behind MJ. Peter leaned against it and tossed back his head, rubbing at his eyes. The motion conveniently exposed the arch of his throat. He was dressed casually today, with no tie or high collar to hide that long line of pale skin.

“You’d better not have told him,” he mumbled.

“I haven’t,” the AI, Karen, replied a little stiffly. “You told me not to.”

“Yeah, and you should have told me MJ was here.”

“Peter.” Karen sounded concerned, which was an impressive feat for an AI. “You must know why I didn’t.”

Tony was pretty sure he knew why as well. Determined to get Peter's attention back where it should be, he gestured to the empty chair next to him. “Why don’t you sit with me? We should eat.”

“I already ate,” Peter said tiredly. His eyes were bloodshot and a little shy again.

At least, he was looking at him now. Tony felt a distinct thrill but kept a neutral expression, turning down the charm a few notches while he was at it. _Put him at ease._

“Keep me company, then.”

For a few seconds, it looked like Peter was going to leave—flee—again. When he joined him instead, keeping several feet of distance between them, Tony made sure to keep the satisfaction off his face as he reached for a handful of broccoli. He didn’t like those bitter flowers some people tried to force into his diet, but he knew what they meant, lying there among his favorite dishes. Peter was taking care of him.

So few people truly cared.

Tony felt his gut clench and forced his hands to relax on either side of his plate. Whatever that little attention meant didn’t matter. There was no emotion uncoiling in his chest, nothing to feel at all. Moving on.

“I still have no answers for you,” he admitted regrettably, genuinely chagrined. After a beat, he added: “Did I design Karen? Because she’s very protective of you.”

It was both the good and the wrong thing to say: Peter blushed almost violently and averted his gaze. Tony waited. He was good at this game: had to be, if he hoped to win. Stark men always won.

“You did—will do—many things for me,” Peter eventually confessed, his voice a little wobbly. “I—I really should have told him about you. The other you. He would… Hell, I…”

He reached for a lukewarm fry and just held it between two fingers, indecision plain on his face. Such a handsome face. Tony bit into a burger, granting the other man some time to come to terms with what he’d already realized. Fuck, but he was glad he’d been taught to control his emotions early on in his life. Peter was ridiculously easy to read. Tony usually regarded with contempt such people who couldn’t master their emotions—a legacy from dear ol’ dad, no doubt—but Peter… There was something about his obvious vulnerability to him that called forth protective instincts long forgotten.

He’d have to be careful, not to play too long with fire. Especially when the prospect of getting burnt excited him a little too much.

“You look beat,” he said, a note of disapproval creeping in. “Have you slept at all?” If Peter was to look tired, Tony thought, he wanted to be _involved_.

He almost said as much, but the deer-in-the-lights look on Peter’s face made him reconsider his strategy. His ability to adapt had always been one of his strengths, according to his mother. He wondered what she would have had to say about the events playing out in this place, in this time. If she would approve of this little game of his. Of his display of patience…

… and then of the exact opposite, as he reached out to cup a pale cheek.

Peter's lips parted on a shuddering breath. He didn’t move away. Even better: he leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering close.

Tony felt warm and light-headed. Which. Okay. So what if he usually needed more stimulation to reach that point?

“Don’t fight it,” he ordered in the gentlest tone he could muster.

He brushed the line of Peter’s jaw with his thumb. Such sharp, wonderful bone structure. He shifted the digit lower, and pressed down, light and undemanding, in that plump lower lip. The next sound to come out of Peter’s mouth was a choked groan. A bang of hair fell across his brow. The passion Tony had enjoyed yesterday flooded those brown eyes once more.

His chair scrapped on the tiles.

“Please don’t fight me, Peter.”

*

_November 18, 2028_

Peter didn’t fight him.

They made out on a lavish couch overlooking the city. At the tender age of twenty-three, he was jaded about many things already—like the splendid view—but he lost himself in that kiss, and held on to Peter’s shoulders white-knuckled, struck by the fear that should he let go at any point, he might lose _him_ to the flow of time. It was irrational, of course, and he released Peter’s shoulders to grip his nape, licking inside his mouth until he was sure he’d never forget the taste—and the almost pained moans Peter made as Tony sucked on his tongue _just so_.

“T-Tony,” Peter gasped. Needy.

_Fuck._

Tony had vaguely planned to stretch this out and get intimately acquainted with every inch of Peter’s creamy skin by sunrise, but in the end, they didn’t get very far: they both climaxed with their clothes still on, eager palms rubbing at each other’s dick through their pants.

Tony was a little disappointed by his own body, but he shelved his embarrassment for later, more interested in Peter’s—and the mind-blowing fact that the front of his pants looked soaked through.

“Did you come _twice_ ,” he asked, incredulous. “Hey, don’t be embarrassed,” he rushed to add as Peter recoiled in obvious shame. “That’s one hell of a compliment.”

With a salacious grin, he slid down Peter’s body and pressed his face into the denim, mouthing at the wet spot with enthusiasm. Fuck, it really was soaked. To his profound delight, he could feel Peter’s cock fill out again. Saliva pooled in his mouth. He dragged his teeth into the fabric with a low moan.

“Fuck, that’s hot. You’re so fucking hot.” He’d never been cheap with compliments, and Peter looked like he could use some. “Can I suck you off? I really want to choke on your cock right now.”

“I…”

“Don’t overthink it, sweetheart.” He licked a wide stripe across the wet spot, very much aroused himself. If Peter could come twice in five minutes, Tony couldn’t wait to find out how many more times he could get him to climax over the course of the night. He had ambitions, damn it.

He said as much.

“J-Just…” Peter fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as Tony dragged down the zipper of his jeans with his teeth. “Be careful?”

Tony had a feeling Peter wasn’t doubting his skills. “You don’t control that super strength of yours so much when you’ve got a mouth on your cock, is that it?”

Peter wound his fingers in his hair, cradling the back of his skull a little too tight. “This isn’t—I mean, I do, yes, but that’s not the only… reason…”

When he draped an arm over his face, muffling the rest of his words, Tony felt a tinge of disappointment and scoffed at himself. What had he expected? That everything would go smoothly? It never did, when he was part of the equation, and that particular formula involved two versions of himself.

Was this a dream?

He really hoped it wasn’t. 

“Hey.” He propped his chin on Peter’s belly, absently noting the well-defined abs. Patience, he reminded himself. “We can just sleep for a while. If you want.”

On the bad side, Peter agreed.

On the good side, he didn’t send Tony back to his room. He even made grabby hands at him, before hastily reaching for the blanket draped over the back of the couch, pretending that this had been his goal all along. Tony played along, and helped spread the multicolored warm wool over both of their bodies. The irregularities in the pattern and the loose threads made it clear the blanket was handmade. He almost asked.

Peter remained quiet, tense and still against the back of the couch, so it was up to Tony to slot a leg in between Peter’s own and rest his head on a pleasantly strong shoulder. Peter’s breath pattern shifted, but he didn’t react otherwise. Tony drew lazy circles over the hip he could reach, but didn't push his luck further. He was strangely aware of how little it would take to upset the new status quo. His thoughts veered to Jarvis. The butler was no doubt losing his mind by now, looking everywhere for ‘young Mister Stark’—in vain.

Because Tony was some _when_ else. With a man he understood so well because his future self had rejected him. And this rejection had shaped him.

Peter closed his eyes, but Tony doubted he’d be sleeping anytime soon. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he never was, Peter was trying harder to resist the urge to pull him closer. Would his yearning be so very clear to any version of Tony who crossed his path?

He stayed his hand. “Sleep well, Peter.”

A heartbeat later, Peter’s arms tightened around him.

Tony smiled inwardly in triumph.

2028 was looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [moodboard](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/zsparz/628904973590249472) I created for the story (my very first)!


	3. Young Tony — The Challenge of Things Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something about Peter. He's unique. Uniquely enticing. He's a gem, seemingly cut to Tony's unconscious specifications. The more Tony learns about him, the more he wants to know. 
> 
> Right until the moment he doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent the last two days and nights on this. If you don't mind, I'm going to pass out right now.
> 
> RIP that 5k-word fic that's now around 30k.

_November 19, 2028_

On the evening of his second day in the future, Tony found himself back in Peter's office, escorted there by the man himself. They'd barely exchanged two words on the way over, but at least Peter wasn't back to avoiding him. Tony noted with displeasure that the purple bruises were still there, underlining those warm brown eyes. Had he slept at all, after leaving Tony on the couch? It must have been around two in the morning, by then, and they'd had breakfast at seven. That was now twelve hours ago. Twelve long hours of pacing the guest room he'd been given, mostly talking to himself since Karen refused to answer his questions about Peter. Usually, Tony loved the sound of his own voice, but he wanted answers, and a goddamn smoke, and Peter—in no particular order.

While Peter busied himself with the content of the bottom drawer of his desk, Tony sat down in the comfortable leather chair on the other side. Just like in the bedroom, it was impossible to make out any cameras in here, although they must be somewhere. Karen had remarked on what he was doing often enough already. She'd also answered _one_ of his questions about Peter, and confirmed that yes, he was at work in this very tower. Probably because it was obvious—and that Tony wasn’t going anywhere without the host's permission.

“Want some?”

Tony eyed the bottle Peter was tilting over a childish plastic glass with interest. Scotch. Peter was already pouring himself a couple of fingers of the strong alcohol, and he drank it straight from that awful glass decorated with bows, downing a good inch in one go. Which, okay. Even Tony, who was famous for holding his liquor, tended to take it slow when it came to scotch.

"Sure," he said, remembering that the little show had initially come with a question. "I'll have some, too."

He was given an actual tumbler, and half the amount Peter had given himself. Tony bit down his tongue and nodded in thanks. He made no effort to brush their fingers, and Peter didn’t scurry back on the other side of the desk immediately. The first sip was _divine_. He kept the second one in his mouth for a while, relishing the bitterness slicking his tongue. This was scotch all right, and the good stuff, too. To think that he’d pegged Peter as the cocktail type… He stared hard at the amber liquid swirling in his glass and decided that no, he couldn’t be entirely wrong. That stack of pancakes coated in maple syrup Peter had devoured at breakfast sure hinted at a sweet tooth. Scotch should have been too bitter, and too strong, for him. Tony enjoyed scotch a great deal, but he’d also had plain toast for breakfast, and only at Peter’s insistence.

Conclusion: the scotch must be a gift. Tony almost asked if _he_ ’d bought it, but he would be remiss to forget the rules of his own game.

 _Put him at ease_.

With a hip cocked against the metallic desk and a faraway look in his eyes, Peter made for a very enticing picture against the background of the night sky, especially with those tailored black slacks and that form-fitting white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing strong forearms, and the top button of the shirt was undone, drawing the eye to the delicious line of his throat. Tony noticed that the hickey he’d given Peter that morning in between pancakes was gone. He started to pout, disappointed, only to remember why it must be the case, and smiled instead. Another challenge, wrapped in a mystery. The very best kind.

Tony sprawled further in his chair, empty tumbler hanging loosely from his fingertips. He’d ask for a smoke, but Peter’s smell had been too clean for him to possibly indulge in that habit. Another kiss would do nicely, but given how Peter had basically fled the kitchen that morning after a brief kiss that was very, very sweet, Tony exhorted himself to be patient.

The silence stretched on.

A while later, Peter pushed himself from the desk. “You understand why I can’t let you explore the city, or even this tower. I mean...” He set the glass down, thumb brushing over a broken purple bow. "I can relate with curiosity, trust me, but..."

“I understand."

Tony didn’t need two Master's degrees to understand the ramifications of his presence here. He knew himself. And Peter knew him, or at least, a version of him. The young man was probably going through all kinds of apocalyptic scenarios right now, and Tony could hardly blame him. If he hadn’t been locked up here, he’d have gone and done his best to cause a couple of paradoxes a while ago… before returning here, because he wasn’t done with Peter. Far from it.

“If I have to remain locked up in here until someone figures out how to send me back,” he said, uncrossing his legs and crossing them the other way, “I’ll need some kind of distraction.”

Peter let go of the content of his pocket and snapped to attention. “I could get you a computer. Without Internet, obviously. Or a television? That’s probably safer. Then again…” Peter bit down his lip as he considered the options. Uncertain, rather than insecure. 

The look was quite fetching on him.

“While I appreciate the offer, that wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Peter’s only answer was to take a hasty sip of his drink and choke on it. A drop trickled down his chin, which he wiped hastily. He’d gotten red in the face so fast it would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so appealing. Arousal thrummed through Tony’s body. His tastes didn't run to the shy and awkward, but it would seem that Peter kept slipping through the cracks of his ironclad habits. Tony drank in the flushed cheeks, the parted lips, the faint pink at the hollow of his throat. He wanted to see how far down that blush went. And if he had his way, he _would_ give Peter plenty more reasons to blush.

But he could be patient. 

“I understand why you’re reluctant to let me roam free, but surely you can tell me a bit about yourself?” Tony gestured around. “Nice office, nice clothes, but you don’t strike me as someone who’d be happy to give orders all day long from behind a desk. You’re the hands-on type.” It wasn’t a question, and Peter seemed content to listen, so Tony went on, always glad for an audience. “You can’t be much older than I am, and yet you’re quite high in the hierarchy. Obviously, you’re successful. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a genius in your own field.”

There was no more scotch in Peter’s glass, and the young man poured himself some more—twice as much as before. His cheeks were still red, but there was a new tightness to his jaw. 

“I’ve been called that,” Peter admitted.

Uncertainty lurked in his eyes, too. No, not uncertainty: pain, with a tinge of yearning. 

"I don't suppose you've watched Star Wars?"

Tony had heard of it. Hadn't been interested, until now. 

He had still so many questions. 

But he also had a plan. Which required Peter to lose that poor attempt at a smile.

Tony stood. "Lead the way."

*

_November 24, 2028_

Getting Peter to open up turned out to be quite the challenge.

It was a good thing Tony was used to clearing obstacles in his path, be it by doing absolutely nothing.

For a solid four days, Peter barely talked to him beyond some basic back-and-forth in the morning, when Peter headed out to work, and some more in the evening, when Peter returned from what Tony would learn was the thirty-ninth floor—the Lab, with a capital ‘L’. Any attempt to spend more time with him was met with work-related excuses, and when Tony insisted, MJ’s name and a certain Ned’s were thrown around. More excuses, but Tony didn’t call him on it. At least Peter had made no mention of him leaving. Which was encouraging.

Tony gave this whole hide-and-seek charade two more days before Peter cracked and stopped hiding.

It took seventeen hours and forty-four minutes.

“You’re back early.”

Peter had just stepped out of the elevator. At eight thirty in the evening, instead of a quarter past midnight. He was wearing a lab coat over his dark grey suit, but Tony didn’t voice his curiosity beyond an arched brow. He thought he recognized the smell of burnt chemicals, but Peter didn’t look hurt, just… Tony wasn’t sure how to interpret his expression, and it bothered him. Still, he didn’t leave the couch. He was comfortable here, lounging with a mug of coffee and a book he’d already read _in his own time_ open in his lap. Besides, he wasn’t about to go ahead and bruise his ego again. How did Platypus put it? _The ball’s in your camp now._ Tony turned the page idly. He knew Peter would give. It was only a matter of time.

“Did you have a nice day?” he asked without looking up, and wondered if it was just him, or the whole interaction was very domestic.

Peter didn’t answer. Tony wasn’t deterred, although a hint of impatience crept into his tone.

“Did you forget to eat again? ’Cause I could always bring you a sandwich, or something.”

Still silence. Tony leaned over to set his mug on the table. The handmade wool blanket he’d draped over his legs fell to the floor.

It was a good thing he’d gotten rid of the mug first.

“Peter, are you—”

Peter was no longer standing by the elevator, stiff-looking and forlorn, denying himself—punishing them both. In the space of two seconds top, he’d crossed the room and straddled Tony’s lap, mouth hot and wet against seeking his own. The kiss was too desperate, too hard for finesse, so Tony didn’t even try. He devoured Peter’s mouth as much as Peter was devouring his, hungry for more. Thank fuck Peter wasn’t in the mood to talk, or to stop: he ripped Tony’s shirt in halves. Arousal shot up Tony’s spine. That was exactly what he’d hoped for.

He bared his throat at once, encouraging Peter to have at him. _Do what you want to me_ , he almost said, but the wild gleam in Peter’s eyes shut him up.

The painful bruise Peter sucked at his throat got him talking again.

“That’s it, yes, everything you want…”

Tony’s cock was so hard it was torture not to reach for it and get some friction, but Peter’s hands were roaming over his chest, brushing his nipples once, twice, and then twisting them a little too hard when Tony hissed out a _yes_ rife with need. It still felt wonderful.

Peter was back to marking his throat, a little gentler this time. Tony snaked a hand between their bodies to fondle Peter’s cock through his linen pants. Fuck, he wanted it. This. Him. Peter was just as hard as he was, and either he’d come already, or he was leaking, because there was a tempting wet spot just under the button. Tony found both possibilities equally exciting. “Please,” he said, and if he never stood for anyone, he certainly never said _please_. “Let me see you.”

Peter stilled, and for a moment, Tony wished he’d shut up, but then Peter leaned back to undress. A few swift motions and superhuman strength were all it took for his clothes to end up on the floor in tatters. It was hot. And Peter was a vision, all lean muscle and alabaster skin, cheeks splotchy red, lips parted on a shaky exhale, cock bouncing as he stepped in the space between Tony’s thighs and sank to his knees.

“L-Like that?” He leaned forwards, until his mouth was hovering over the bulge in Tony’s pants. “Can I—Do you want me to?”

Had Tony touched himself right now, he would have blown his load. So, he didn’t. And prided himself in his self-control.

“If you want,” he drawled, because the day he turned down a blow job hadn’t come yet. “But if that’s all the same to you, I’d really like to switch places.”

And Peter must be thinking along the same lines, because he shot to his feet and tangled his feet in the blanket, but didn’t stumble, because his balance was just that good, and the eager look in his eyes _didn’t_ go straight to Tony’s cock.

It totally did.

Tony had had it with waiting, and he put his mouth to good use as soon as his knees hit the ground. The blanket offered a nice cushion, but that was the least of his concern: he had Peter’s cock in his mouth, and he planned to make that delicious twink regret all the time he’d spent avoiding him.

“ _Oh_ ,” Peter was completely still, except for his hands—he was fisting the cushion at his sides so hard the fabric gave with a snap. “God, Tony, you…” He tossed his head back with a low moan, but it wasn’t long before his eyes were back on Tony, pupils blown by lust and amazement.

Tony chuckled around his mouthful but didn’t stop sucking. This was no time to tease. Instead, he got Peter to grip the back of his head, and when Peter just kept his hand there, neither pushing nor pulling, Tony pulled back, lapped the precum beading at the slit, and said: “Pull on my hair all you want.”

Peter’s breath caught, and his cock jumped in Tony’s lose grip.

_Nailed it._

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Peter whispered, and he sounded almost angry at himself.

For not being able to control himself, Tony wondered, or _because_ he wanted to inflict pain and thought he shouldn’t?

Tony dug one hand into his erection. Just to take the edge off, he told himself. Peter just pressed all of his buttons, and Tony could tell the young man wasn’t even trying. “I don’t think you will,” he said seriously. “Hurt me _too_ much, that is. I don’t mind a little pain with my pleasure, sweet thing.”

Peter squirmed. “You don’t know me.”

Tony watched him from beneath his eyelids, and tightened his grip around the base of Peter’s cock.

“But you know me, don’t you? And you want me.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Tony wished to take them back. Unfortunately, time refused to bend for him in that particular direction, and Tony was stuck with the consequences of his action. He honestly expected Peter to leave. To ignore the obvious. Deny the truth.

But he didn’t. Somehow, breaking the one unspoken rule had been exactly the right thing to do. Peter’s fingers tangled into Tony’s short hair at the back of his head and _yanked_ , hard, too hard, and it was perfect, the darkness framing the desire in Peter’s eyes was perfect, and Tony felt a distinct thrill as he went back to sucking Peter’s cock. Fuck, but he’d missed giving head, especially when the other man was so goddamn responsive. A twirl of the tongue, a little more suction, and Peter would let out the most wonderful sounds, little keens and moans interspersed with Tony’s name. Tony felt his own cock throb in his pants as he savored the warm slide of Peter’s erection on his tongue. While Peter’s cock wasn’t precisely porn material, it stretched his jaw nicely, and Tony could choke on it aplenty.

The hand at his nape tightened again.

“Tony, I’m—” Peter’s hips bucked, a thrust so forceful that Tony gagged and drooled. “Oh, shit, Tony… _Fuck_!”

Warmth spilled down his throat. Tony swallowed reflexively, once, twice, and marveled privately at the sheer amount of it. He pulled back in time to get some on his tongue. Unsurprisingly, it tasted sweet.

The last few drops landed on his chin.

He stopped his hand before it could reach his throat. It might bruise, with the way Peter’s cock had rammed into it, but he didn’t regret it one bit, and he wasn’t about to give Peter any excuse to be self-conscious.

“Oh my God.”

Peter had covered his mouth with both hands, eyes very wide. The words were still plainly audible, though.

Tony caressed the insides of Peter’s thighs while the other man gathered his wits. If Peter’s obvious amazement wasn’t a compliment, he didn’t know what was.

“That was… wow.”

“I know,” Tony said, smug and rightly so. 

Peter didn’t react to his tone. With a trembling hand, he reached for the white on Tony’s lips, and smeared it further. Tony parted his lips as the digit brushed the corner of his mouth and sucked at the tip with a satisfied sound. He was hard as a rock and aching for a release of his own, but the elated expression on Peter’s face made him pause. _He_ ’d put it there. _Him_ , not Old Tony.

He shut that ridiculous train of thought. Partly because, _hello_ , it was unwarranted, but also, Peter had leaned into him to kiss him on the mouth, a soft, sweet press of lips that shouldn’t send his heart in overdrive.

Having Peter lift him like he weighed nothing—convenient, but also, _hot_ —and toss him on the couch went a long way in keeping him focused on what really mattered. And when Peter’s mouth replaced his fingers at his belt, and then on his boxer shorts, Tony couldn’t be bothered to think of anything else besides the mouth exploring him through the thin fabric of his underwear.

It didn’t take long before that was gone, too.

Peter buried his face in his groin and inhaled deeply.

Tony grunted. Apparently, that was a kink he didn’t know he’d had.

Warm brown eyes met his. “If I do, if you’re—If I do _anything_ you don’t—”

“I’ll tell you,” Tony promised, pretty sure the world would come to an end before _that_ happened.

And he was right. Two minutes and thirty-three seconds after Peter first wrapped his lips around the head of his cock, Tony climaxed so hard he didn’t even mind being stimulated past the point of oversensitivity. Peter brought him to full hardness with his mouth and hands, unhurried, cajoling, and when Tony regained enough brain cells to understand why Peter’s right arm did a constant back and forth, he came again. Peter didn't take much longer.

"Oh God," he gasped.

And then:

“ _Mr. Stark_.”

 _That_ certainly took care of the afterglow. Tony forced himself to project indifference as Peter wiped away at his cheeks, but inwardly, he was horrified. He hated it when people cried.

And right now, he hated _why_.

He kept his mouth shut, this time. He guided Peter’s head into his lap and carded his fingers through his hair. He was good at pretending. A lot better than Peter.

Peter didn’t speak either, but the hiccups stopped after a while, and his breathing evened out. 

For a good portion of the night, Tony didn’t sleep. He thought about Jarvis, Rhodey, and his workshop. About the fact that he barely missed any of it.

He forced his mind away from that uncomfortable realization.

When he fell asleep, he dreamt of a chase. But the hunter wasn't him, and he ran, and ran, unable to see what was after him, and knowing that no matter what he did, it would catch him.

And it would _burn_.

*

_November 28, 2028_

Peter never called him Mr. Stark again, but he began to let things slip about himself. Trivial data interspersed with important revelations, mostly when they lay in bed together, in between bouts of sex. Tony found it all equally interesting, and added each new fact to the picture of Peter he was painting in his mind. One brushstroke after the other. Tacos with plenty of cheese and jalapenos. Star Wars (way too many, in Tony’s opinion). Peter liked to be tickled just after sex. He couldn’t seem to decide if he liked, or hated, Tony’s exaggerated displays of arrogance. He was an orphan. His aunt was called May. He seldom indulged in a bath, but he loved to soak in one. Praise caused him to blush. So did dirty talk. He was fit despite eating mountains of sweets, and his mind kept buzzing with new ideas and complex theories.

Peter Benjamin Parker was a gem.

Tony was used to getting what he wanted, and whom he desired. He’d snap his finger, level his prey with that Tony Stark Patented Heated Look, and the chosen one (for the night) would follow him into bed, eager to please him.

Over time, he’d gotten more… selective. Oh, he never said no to stunning arm candy, because he was a hedonist at heart and always enjoyed the various manifestations of beauty, but after the first few hundred lays, he’d started an active search of bed partners with _brains_. Which wasn’t exactly as easy as his Platypus made it sound. Tony was brilliant, and for him to consider someone else worthy of his undivided attention? The other party had to be something else.

Peter embodied that concept. He was a biochemist, but not your run-of-the-mill scientist. He created and altered compounds, challenged the established norms in biology and chemistry on a daily basis, came up with incredible theories while they were jerking each other off, for fuck’s sake—something Tony had assumed only _he_ did. He was brilliant. He was shy but stubborn, generous, an exception in a world revolving around greed. Tony could talk to him about anything, and Peter would listen, and more importantly, _understand_ the fucking physics. Share his own ideas, as long as _that name_ didn’t come up in the conversation. In time, Peter would speak as well, of pretty much every aspect of his life.

With one exception.

Looking at Peter’s peaceful expression as he slept, Tony wondered why he’d ended was here.

The reason why he was allowed to stay was a lot more obvious, and not something Tony liked to think about for too long.

*

_December 13, 2028_

Peter kicked off the sheets with a chuckle. “No, I don’t have any powers beside super strength and speed. I’ve always been flexible, but I guess the bite might have enhanced that. And my balance.”

“That’s still plenty from a single spider bite.”

Peter huffed. “It wasn’t exactly the kind of spider you find in your garden, Tony.”

Tony wiped the stickiness off his belly with a corner of the sheets before rolling onto his side to drink his fill of Peter. Sweaty, red in the cheeks, disheveled, all in all well fucked. Not that they’d had actual penetration yet, but third base still counted for something. Getting his mouth and hands on Peter’s cock—and just then, a finger teasing his cute little hole—sure counted in Tony’s book, and it generally didn’t. 

At least, not after the tenth time with the same bed partner. Tony liked diversity, and got bored easily.

But Peter wasn’t just anyone. Right now, despite the cum drying on his treasure trail, he managed to pull off the look of someone deep in thought about _science_. He was probably sorting through equations, or amending one step or another of his current experiments, plural. Tony had winked often enough at his own reflection in the mirror to know exactly how _he_ looked in genius mode.

And there was no denying it: Peter was a genius.

A faint crease appeared between Peter’s brows, and his right index finger twitched, a tell-tale sign that he was about to run for one of those little portable computers called ‘tablets’ to write down the outline of a new idea. It was cute, and a little impressive, honestly, considering that Tony had just brought him to orgasm for the fourth time in a row.

 _Looks and brains_.

Truly a gem.

“You could probably get your body to produce that web fluid of yours, if that was something you wanted,” he said once Peter emerged from his scribbling. “I don’t know how far bioengineering has come in 2028, but you’re a genius. And it takes one to know one.”

“You know you can’t tell anyone, right?”

“That you’re a genius?”

Peter propped himself on one elbow, a very serious look descending on his face. “That I’m Spiderman.”

Who could he possibly tell? Tony wondered. But stating the obvious would be counterproductive, so he didn’t. “Ah, baby.” He rose to his knees and cupped Peter’s face, thumbs brushing over his warm cheeks. “Your secret’s safe with me. All of them.” He wasn’t even lying. He had no desire to put Peter in the spotlight—not when he could have this man from the future all for himself. “Although, I’m curious as to why the world doesn’t already know.”

“I considered it at some point, but…”

The haunted look on Peter’s face only ever meant one thing, so Tony did his part and changed the subject with all of Rhodey’s subtlety when Tony was being an ass.

“Do you have lube somewhere in here?”

Honestly, he half-expected Peter to smack him with the closest pillow, but to his profound delight, the other man kissed his palm before crawling towards the nightstand.

Tony enjoyed the view.

“That will do?”

Peter held a tube of lube, expectant but askance, just about ready to go for a fifth round. Everything about his body language hinted at the need to please, to be good for _him_ , and such eagerness should have made him easy, not a fucking challenge. And yet. Tony found himself incredibly eager to make it good for Peter, to praise him for being good, and he didn’t question it. His latest orgasm felt eons ago.

He reached for the lube, and gave Peter’s cock a tight pull in passing, earning himself a low moan. “So, tell me… How do you see this going?” His cock twitched in anticipation, and why the hell not? Peter was fucking hot, blushing and squirming under his scrutiny. If ‘adorable’ had been part of Tony’s vocabulary, he would definitely have used it to describe Peter in that moment. Tony pitched his voice an octave lower and watched in interest as those brown eyes darkened further. “Want to watch me slick myself up so you can fuck me into the mattress to your heart’s content?” It had been a while—if ‘a while’ meant ‘it never happened’—but the hitch in Peter’s breath and the sudden tight grip on his hips was all the encouragement he needed. He reached for Peter’s crotch again, but bypassed Peter’s interested cock to rub a knuckle just behind his sack, teasing the soft line of skin there. “Or should I make you all nice and wet _for me_?”

Peter worried at his bottom lip. “It’s probably…” His hips jerked as Tony dragged his knuckle in sensual backs-and-forths. “… s-safer if you bottom. If that’s something you like. I mean... only if you want to.”

Tony schooled his expression into mild surprise. “How so? Ah…” The prospect of getting a bruised dick shouldn’t turn him on so much, but Peter made him want so many things he’d never considered before.

He gave Peter’s nipples a little twist, and relished the wanton moan he got in return. When Peter didn’t make any move to take the lead, Tony encouraged him to lie down on his back and straddled his hips, bending low to nip at his favorite spot at his throat, rubbing their cocks together, so aroused he became concerned he wouldn’t last for the main event. But he had to. He wanted to take Peter apart and rock his world, and he always got what he wanted. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I like _everything_."

“It tends to… hurt.”

Tony could appreciate concern just like the next person, but enough was enough.

“My dick can take it.” He soothed the nice bruise he’d set on Peter’s neck with his tongue and committed it to memory, fully aware of the ephemerality of it. “I’m not afraid.”

“That’s, like, your middle name.”

Tony lived for that sass. “Cheeky, aren’t you? But you get to pick. That being said, don’t let fear keeps you from an experience you’ll definitely enjoy.”

“Have you always been so fucking confident?”

“I just know what I’m worth,” he said without a lick of humility, and why should he bother? “My ass is a real treat. All tight and warm.” _Untouched by a cock_ , he almost added, but he didn’t want Peter to go extra careful on him.

Especially when it became clear what Peter had decided.

Tony was on his hands and knees in the time it took Peter to uncap the lube. The teasing finger massaging his rim felt wonderful, and Tony wasn’t nervous, he wasn’t, and when the tip pushed in, he arched his back in what he knew was an inviting bow.

The second finger fit easily, too.

Tony couldn’t decide what he liked more: those long, clever fingers trusting inside him or that hot tongue lapping at his rim. What he did know was that should Peter keep that up, he was going to climax from prostate stimulation alone, from being _fingered_ , and for the first time in a long time, he felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“You’re doing so well,” Peter said. It was impossible to mistake the awe in his voice for anything else. “You’re so warm inside.”

Tony buried his face into the mattress. Since when did _he_ have a praise kink?

 _A Peter kink_ , a little voice at the back of his mind corrected.

Tony fisted his hands in the sheets and gasped as Peter took it upon himself to massage his prostate with single-minded focus.

“So beautiful,” he kept saying, fingers curling and twisting. “You’re perfect.”

A third digit slipped in, too wet, too slow, but Tony couldn’t find it in him to hurry him. The reverent way in which Peter was prepping him forbid it.

When Peter pulled back, leaving him aching and empty, Tony heard strange words coming out of his own mouth.

“I…I don’t know the state of STDs in the 2020s, and I did get tested sometime last year, but, _ah_ , fuck, yes, I’m probably due for a check-up.”

“I have condoms.” There was a note of surprise in Peter’s voice. “But I also don’t need one... or for you to wear one. I, well, I can’t get anything. And I can’t give you anything. No STDs, anyway. But it’s your choice. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Then fuck me raw, sweet thing.”

Peter obliged. And Tony decided that he might just bottom again, because the sensation of warm cum filling him up was something else. As was the way Peter bit down his shoulder so hard he broke skin.

And that single word he grunted right at the end, just before Tony climaxed.

_“Mine.”_

*

_December 17, 2018_

They had plenty of sex.

Peter’s office ended up severing its purpose, and they took turns fucking each other against the sleek modern desk. _And_ the floor-to-ceiling windows, for reasons totally unrelated to exhibitionism. Peter began to keep lube in a drawer, which Tony considered a compliment. And if he ended up with a bruised dick, well, he kept asking for it. And like he’d said: he enjoyed a little pain with his pleasure. Which Peter only seemed to understand when Tony came _untouched_ from a brutal spanking session.

And asked for another one a couple of hours afterwards, ass cheeks already purple and aching.

So what if he was some kind of pain slut and only discovered it now? Peter wasn’t judging. He’d better not be, with how goddamn sensitive he was, spilling down Tony’s throat after barely twenty-five seconds of stimulation when his nipples were pinched just so. Peter was so fucking responsive that Tony just had to keep coming up with new ways to blow his mind. Which included tonguing Peter’s ass while the CEO negotiated business terms on the phone.

Tony grew very fond of the way Peter managed to keep his wits about himself for the time it took him to secure a deal—before he picked Tony from the ground and bent him over his own desk, pulling out the shiny butt plug almost gently before fucking into him fast and hard with one hand on Tony’s neck, pinning him to the cool metal of the desk surface.

The sex was fun. Great. Every time, Tony could have sworn he’d never had _real_ sex before Peter.

He added that realization to the list of things he wasn’t thinking about.

*

_December 18, 2020_

Peter started to leave later to work. Not that he had to go far and had a boss breathing down his neck, but still. He returned earlier, too, although he still left every now and then in the dead of night to tinker in the Lab. Tony had done the exact same thing, back in his time. The annoying little voice at the back of his mind suggested that he would keep doing it in the years—decades—to come, and that Peter’s night expeditions on the thirty-ninth floor were probably his own influence.

Headaches tended to plague him when he considered _him_. The causes and consequences intertwined, the paradoxes, the denial, the truth. He tried not to linger on any of it, but time travel was fascinating, and Tony was a scientist.

Sometimes, he’d follow Peter to the Lab, and sit in a corner to play with state-of-the-art material. To his surprise, Peter answered some of his questions, even though he made an obvious effort to remain vague. Tony even got to try out the web-shooters, and that made for some interesting improvised bondage session.

Other times, Tony woke up too late, and the elevator wouldn’t open for him. It was annoying, but understandable, he supposed. Back home, he’d needed time alone as well.

Needless to say, he didn’t expect Karen to grant him access to the elevator or to the Lab on that Friday morning.

“Be nice,” was all she told him.

An ominous warning, if Tony had ever heard one. Overcome by a sense of unease, he didn’t linger in the dark corridor.

The high-security door opened as soon as his palm brushed the biometrics scanner.

“Peter?”

“H-Hey.”

The Lab was well lit when Peter worked.

He wasn’t working now. On the couch they’d sit on to chat and snack, Peter was huddled in a ball, knees held tightly to his chest, the muscles in his arms showing. Tension rolled off of him in waves, but Tony felt his feet move forwards without his say-so, and he sat down beside Peter, feeling distinctly out of his depth.

It was not a good feeling.

“You should go back to bed,” Peter said.

He was shivering. Tony wound an arm around his shoulders and tilted his chin up. He’d never been one to empathize, but the pain in Peter’s eyes found an echo in his chest. It was unnerving, unexpected, and unwelcome, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Peter leaned into his touch, and Tony’s breath hitched. There was recognition in Peter’s eyes, but it felt wrong, foreign. He wasn’t looking at him, not exactly. Tony sensed a distance between them, in both space and time, and he wondered where Peter was right now. What he was seeing.

Who it was who embraced him, and whispered words of comfort.

Tony snapped his mouth shut.

Peter sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Tony replied, and it sounded true. Felt that way, too.

It took almost an hour for Peter to speak up again.

Tony listened as he was told of Titan and Thanos, of half the universe dying and coming back to life. If anyone else had claimed that some _stones_ could do that, he would have laughed in their face, but this was Peter, and he sounded so serious, and tired, and Tony found himself engrossed by the tale of a great battle in a country he’d never heard of—Wakanda. He didn’t ask who had made it possible for Thanos to die, and for the dead to live again. There was no need. He heard what Peter wasn’t saying, filled those lulls in his confidences with the name neither of them used. When Peter mentioned Wakanda for the second time, a single sentence full of gaps where the same name was missing—always that fucking name that wasn’t his, not yet, not here—Tony wondered if that was where and when it had happened. That other confession. Old Tony’s rejection.

He didn’t ask.

Peter didn’t add anything else, and lay down on his side. Tony did the same and hugged him close, face buried in Peter’s neck.

All around, the various machines at work beeped and hissed. Experiments were run, and data gathered. 

Not that long ago, Tony would have given away half his fortune to get up and play with them some more. 

He didn’t move. Didn’t want to. What he felt, when the word came to mind, was something he hadn’t experienced since his mother had died.

Helplessness.

“Please.”

Tony tightened his hold. He was… familiar with nightmares. So far, Peter hadn’t had any in his presence, and neither had Tony in all the nights they’d spent together.

He reached for the handmade wool blanket that Peter had dragged down to the Lab and wrapped it around Peter’s shivering form, enveloping him in the scent of his former home, the apartment in Queens where his aunt still lived. Tony’s nose wasn’t good enough to pick it up, but Peter must have, because the grip he had on Tony’s wrist relaxed.

Tony’s skin tingled.

“I’m here,” he said, and only felt half-stupid trying to reassure a sleeping man. “You’re safe.”

Peter settled back into his embrace with a contented sigh and mumbled something else.

“Thank you.”

He was still asleep. Tony didn’t doubt that. He’d spent enough nights with him to know the signs.

Enough time to guess which version of him Peter was thanking.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in and out slowly, and then slower still, following Jarvis's advice from a lifetime ago. _In. Out. Focus._ That night, Tony had been blackout drunk, and the panic attack had torn through him with all the violence of denied emotions. It had been a couple of days after his parents’ death. Tony hadn’t cared about his father's sudden demise. Accident, murder: it was all the same to him. He'd hated Edward Stark. But he'd loved his mother, even though he hadn't said the words in recent years. 

And Peter, he—

_Fuck._

Despite the sudden urge to run, Tony sat up with exaggerated care, unwilling to disturb Peter’s now peaceful rest. He fussed with the blanket a bit while he waited for that annoying urge to pass, but gazing down at this unique man who kept charming him, feeling the heat of him through the blanket, only made the restlessness worse—and it was restlessness, not fear, that got his thoughts all tangled up and his gut in a knot. _Breathe_ , he told himself firmly, but his lungs burnt, and his fingertips tingled as they brushed Peter's brow. 

When he left, Peter was still sound asleep.


	4. Young Tony — The Pain of a Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more night.
> 
> That was the least Tony could allow himself, and the most he dared take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet Legolas can't believe his elf eyes right now: 2 updates in 1 week, whereas I couldn't bring myself to update *some other WIPs* in more than a year. What can I say? I'm... inspired.
> 
> The song I listened to while I wrote (and edited, and _edited_ ) the following 7k: [In Your Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZT03pOKSTeM)

_December 19, 2028_

The first time Tony saw his older self was also the only time he witnessed his interaction with Peter.

He’d been waiting for it. How could he not? The computer Peter had given him provided very few modern movies, and none of them hinted at the current state of affairs, or well, _him_. At least, there was modern software he could use to run complex equations, and he spent several hours marveling at the power contained in the small components.

He may have disassembled the laptop as a result. And Peter, finding him with parts scattered everywhere on the bed, may have watched him reassemble it with a long-suffering sigh and a melancholic smile.

 _Will you give me limited access to the Internet if I’m very, very good?_ Tony had asked with a coy smile, a microchip between two fingers.

 _You can’t be_ that _good_ , Peter had replied.

Tony had tried anyway. Mostly for the fun of it. The challenge. There was something incredibly addictive in having Peter spread out on the bed he called _theirs_ , naked and flushed all over, eager, so eager, Tony’s name on Peter’s lips a plea to be devoured by him. Claimed.

But all the sex in the world, all the sex with _Peter_ , couldn’t make Tony forget his own curiosity about himself. Call it narcissism. Call it a healthy side effect of time travel. In any case, the lack of access to Internet, television, and to the world in general, had only served to compound that curiosity over time. Tony didn’t have the faintest idea what he looked like _now_ , despite being teased every single day by the sight of his own name splattered on that fancy tower on the other side of town. He didn’t truly know what he had (would) become, despite the obvious and the educated guesses.

He had so many questions for himself.

So many accusations to level.

This morning, he hadn’t been thinking about Peter’s latest revelations about Titan and Wakanda. Well, at first, he had—while Peter still slept in the Lab and Tony watched the first snow of December drift down from the starless sky to blanket the city. For some reason known only to her, Karen had offered him access to the roof. The thick coat he’d worn for the occasion should have been enough to keep him warm, but there was a chill he couldn’t chase, the ice of an awful certainty forming into his bones. 

_Mr. Stark._

Peter had dragged a shivering Tony back inside sometime after dawn, and they’d indulged in a long bath together. Afterwards, Peter had taken him apart on the bed and proceeded to warm him up even further by fucking him into the mattress. Tony had remained on the brink of orgasm for so long that he’d had to reconsider the whole notion of edging. When Peter had spilled deep inside him, it hurt.

Just not where Tony had expected.

He’d refused to linger on that ache, and Peter’s suspicious bright mood had made it clear that he wasn’t the only one willing to dismiss that moment in the Lab last night. Tony had played this game before. He was good at it, and he’d helped the charade along, sitting in Peter’s lap to feeds him bits of chocolate-chip pancake in between sips of coffee and science theories.

As soon as breakfast was over, Tony had pushed the plates away and bent Peter over the kitchen counter, fucking him in the middle of the brilliantly lit kitchen.

And sometime later, Peter had fucked _him_ in their bed, whimpering his name every few thrusts, his mouth wet at his throat, his hands vice on his trembling thighs.

Another bath, some rest, and a few hours of equation writing in bed later, Tony left the bedroom. He was limping, but he kind of liked it, and enjoyed it even more since Peter had stopped showing all that useless concern and admitted—through a heated glance if nothing else—that Tony struggling to walk after they fucked made for a very enticing picture.

Tony picked a direction at random and started half-walking, half-limping. He kind of wanted to go again, but the probabilities of Peter saying no were pretty high. It didn't matter. They could watch a movie, or play their game of Physics vs. Chemistry again. If Peter wasn't done working but didn't mind the company, Tony could also drag his Very Limited Computer to his office, and they'd be geniuses together. Tony wasn't _difficult_ , never mind what dear old dad used to claim. 

_You're a handful_ , Peter had said earlier, but he'd been good-humored as he'd swatted him with the cloth he’d used to clean them, and his smile had reached his eyes.

Tony paused just long enough to adjust the tilted structure of fancy little mirrors shaped like the caffeine molecule. 

“Is Peter still in the Lab?” 

Karen remained quiet. Tony’s steps faltered. Three weeks ago, such silence treatment would have been the norm.

Not anymore.

He picked up the pace, eyes darting from door to door, heart rate spiking. A faint voice—Peter’s—and someone else’s drifted to him from the direction of the office. Tony slowed down, ears perking, and stared at the door. It was ajar. He stepped forwards, clenched hands relaxing slightly. Peter tended to lock himself up in his office when he took calls. For that one, he hadn’t. And for once, Tony could pick up his interlocutor’s voice. A man with a deep, rich baritone.

 _Eavesdropping is rude_. Jarvis’s voice rose from the past, stern with disapproval.

Tony ignored it.

“… last week, at any rate. By the way, you haven’t come by in a while, kid.”

Tony’s whole body froze. Even his heart missed a beat. Could it be—

Of course, it was. Even without the moniker right at the end of the sentence, there could be no doubt in Tony’s mind. That voice could only belong to one person.

“You haven’t invited me.”

Peter’s own voice was equally light, with a hint of humor. The sassy note was familiar.

The bored undertone wasn’t. And not because it was so fucking obviously _fake_.

Tony’s heart resumed beating, but it felt trapped, almost lodged into his throat. He inched closer, not touching the door, not yet, curiosity morphing into something ugly. Fucking hell, where was a fucking smoke when he needed one?!

“You’ve had a standing invitation for almost a decade, kid,” said the older man’s voice— _Mr. Stark’s voice_. “That name on the façade is just to keep the investors happy.”

“Well, I too have investors to keep happy.”

“Don’t start and steal all my excuses again.”

The back-and-forth went on, not awkward at all, despite Peter’s tone constantly jarring with the words he said.

Feeling distinctly close to the edge of a particularly treacherous cliff, Tony pushed the door open just enough to get a peek inside the office. He spotted Peter first, the tense profile of him folded in the chair behind the desk. The screen he was looking at was huge, bigger than any television screen Tony had seen in his time. Despite the sheer size of it, the image was crystal clear, the colors sharp and vibrant. Not that Tony had any kind of interest in technology right now.

He saw himself. The familiar shape of a face, a goatee that would look horrible on him at twenty-three, but granted a definite charm to a man closing on sixty. Lines stood out at the corner of his eyes, and the creases in his brow were somewhat pronounced. There was grey hair at his temples, and although the rest was black, and styled in precisely the way Tony liked his own hair, it was obvious it was dyed.

Tony touched his lips as this older version of him made a quip about something Peter said. The smile that touched both their mouths was a little sad, and a little forced. They were the same.

The Tony on the screen didn’t look a day younger than his fifty-eight years, which was… disappointing, but also predictable. At least he was still handsome, and this vitality he had about him, Tony recognized it as his own.

But the depths in those older eyes, the shadows lurking there, Tony hadn’t lived through their cause. Fear gripped him at the throat, rational in a way that only time travel allowed. What was going to happen to him? He knew part of it, of course. Titan. Thanos. Peter turning to dust.

In his arms?

 _Yes_ , the shadows in those older eyes screamed.

Old Him hadn’t seen him yet, which worked in his favor. He must not be aware he even existed in this time either. There was no doubt in Tony’s mind that if Peter had mentioned _him_ , the two (three?) of them would be having a very different conversation right now. 

Which begged the question: why hadn’t Peter mentioned him?

Tony stared at the man he would become, peeling away masks that were familiar, and more that weren’t. It was strange, to try and get a read on a person he knew so intimately and yet not at all. A man who knew _him_ better than himself, and had had thirty-five years to polish the impressions he gave others. But Peter wasn’t just anyone else. By his mere presence, he tore down the walls this Tony had obviously spent decades building. Illusions. Smoke and mirrors. And Tony kept on staring, a blind man relearning Braille, and he got answers, to so many questions.

The expected satisfaction didn’t come.

“… take care of yourself. You’ve been working yourself to the ground. There’s a difference between hard-working and workaholic, you know.”

“ _You_ would know.”

“Yeah, and call me a hypocrite, but I only want what’s best for you. You’re so brilliant, Peter, but you deserve to have fun. You deserve so much more. What about that trip I—”

“What I deserve is a raise.”

“Maybe your boss will agree.” The amusement lacing Old Tony’s words didn’t last, although his expression remained soft. “Will you come to the Christmas Party, at least? You know you can bring Ned and MJ.”

“I…” Peter’s features tightened for a brief moment. “I don’t know.”

“The others miss you… We all do. Tasha is being insufferable without her dose of friendly spider. A party is never the same without you, kid.”

“I’m busy.”

“Is that a broken record I’m hearing?”

“Shut up,” Peter mumbled, but a weary smile was tugging at the corner of his lips.

Tony stepped away from the door. Spun around and walked away, his breathing too fast, the roaring of blood too loud in his ears. The floor wasn’t quite straight, and the lights lining up the walls turned to vast arches, bright and infinite through the sheen of tears. He burst into a bathroom at random and hurried to the sink, turning on the one tap on full blast and splashing his face until the cold outside matched the one inside.

 _Fuck_.

Tony had to hand it to him: his older self was doing a great job of pretending Peter was a close friend and nothing more. The yearning was buried so deep under layers of regret and determination that for all intents and purposes, it wasn’t there at all. But it was. Tony may not have lived an extra thirty-five years, but he would always be able to read his own fucking face.

And Old Tony cared about Peter. He cared about aspects of Peter that Tony didn’t know yet, because they hadn’t known each other for that long, hadn’t shared the painful experiences Peter only ever hinted at in his presence. There was that silent language between them, meanings conveyed in the twitching of fingers and narrowing of eyes, in a hundred variants of a smile. He’d only watched them interact for a couple of minutes, but he’d seen enough. Learned, enough. The praise his older self had offered Peter... Tony knew very well how much Peter liked it, and didn’t hesitate to feed Peter’s ego during sex, but Old Tony did it in a completely platonic way.

And yet, there was nothing platonic about the want in his eyes.

_Idiot._

If he’d shared Peter’s super strength, the marble under his palms would have crumbled to dust. But he didn’t. And he wasn’t. Peter’s. He could never be, as long as there was another _him_ in the background—layering every look in Peter’s eyes, lining the vast expanse of both dreams and nightmares.

“You’re soft,” he accused his reflection.

Old Tony was soft, too. For the very same reason.

Tony hated it. The sensation of being exposed, vulnerable. He’d been right to believe that Peter was mistaken. It was obvious. So fucking obvious, that Peter was still head over heels in love with _Mr. Stark._

_Fuck, fuck, FUCK!_

He stared down at the blood dripping from his knuckles. Glass shards littered the white basin of the sink, and when he lifted his eyes to look at his reflection, he only saw half his face, and even then, it was split up further, a divided mosaic of lies and truths. Mismatched pieces, forced together.

“Tony.”

“Don’t,” he rasped.

Karen didn’t insist. If she reported the incident to Peter, he didn’t rush to him. Probably because she didn’t. After all, she was quite the brilliant AI.

 _Mr. Stark_ really was better in so many ways.

“F-Fuck you.”

Time. It was all a matter of time. If Tony got to live longer, if he’d—

But he would, wouldn’t he? That was the whole fucking point! One day, they would meet again, and they would fall in love with each other. But they wouldn’t be together, because they were both _idiots_.

Idiots who still loved each other.

Tony only had to close his eyes to see it again. The sad gleam in Peter’s eyes, when he’d spoken of Titan, and then Wakanda. When he’d said _Mr. Stark_ at the height of ecstasy.

The fucking yearning.

Pain spread through his chest, constricting it so fast he couldn’t quite breathe right. When he leaned closer to the broken mirror, staring into eyes wet with unshed tears, he saw an older man. Lines spread out from the corners of his eyes outwards, and those eyes had depths carved by sharp memories, pains he had yet to suffer and endure. He felt his hands clutch the edge of the counter. His chest hurt. It wasn’t actual pain, there was no blood, only a feeling expanding so fast and so wide there was barely enough room left for air.

 _Breathe_ , Jarvis’s voice said, but it came from too far away.

Tony sagged against the counter. It was no wonder MJ had been so concerned when she’d first met him. She must know about the torch Peter still carried for Old Him, and had been worried that another Tony would only prevent Peter from moving on.

 _As if Peter wants to move on_ , he thought darkly.

He clutched at his chest and sank to the floor, banging the back of his head on the sink. The brief flare of pain barely registered.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He hadn’t even thought he could.

_In. Out._

_Mr. Stark._

He tilted his head back further and looked into the harsh light at the ceiling. Blinding. All-consuming.

It felt a bit like how kissing Peter felt.

Was this why he was here? Was he to be the consolation prize?

Anger eluded him. He looked down at his chest, expecting it to be wide open, every organ exposed and dying, but it rose and fell in its usual manner, the fabric of one of Peter’s shirts rising and falling with it.

He’d known he couldn’t stay. This wasn’t his time. This wasn’t right. He’d just ignored the obvious and indulged in the moment, like he always did. He’d taken and taken until the scales had tipped and he’d started giving back, not even aware of the moment he’d dismissed his initial plan of seduction. Somehow, in between nights spent in Peter’s Lab, wrapped up in Peter’s arms, mapping every inch of Peter’s skin with his hands and mouth, his purpose had shifted, and the trap had sprung on his unsuspecting heart.

Denial aside, Peter was so much more mature about his own feelings. He’d all but spilled his guts to him last night, almost said the words contained in the tears that had soaked Tony’s shirt. So many tears wasted for the better version of a man he thought he couldn’t have.

In a moment of sudden clarity, Tony realized that his older self may have broken Peter’s heart, but he’d certainly broken _his own_ in the process. Since then, he’d probably denied himself while giving Peter everything he wanted except what Peter wanted the most. If Tony’s suspicions were right, his older self had probably even invented time travel to save the one person he didn’t allow himself to love. It would only make sense. Peter _was_ a gem.

Just not quite his to treasure.

*

_December 22, 2028_

One more night.

That was the least Tony could allow himself, and the most he dared take.

He’d spent the last three days resolutely not thinking about what would come after. He could admit that much to himself: if he thought about the future (the past) too hard, he would not go through with his plan. He was, after all, nowhere near as selfless as the luckiest asshole in the world.

Peter didn’t see through his act, even when Tony actually _requested_ that they spend the day together, something he’d never done before. His easy acceptance almost caused Tony to slip, but he couldn’t, so he didn’t. He was all smiles as he let Peter choose the movie, and busied himself with the popcorn, their favorite sweet and salty mix. Peter would eat the caramel-coated bits, and Tony would stick to the salty ones.

The movie, unsurprisingly, was another Star Wars—the only one Tony hadn’t seen yet. Fitting, he supposed.

He couldn’t tell what it had been about if his life depended on it.

Peter sat close to him the whole time. He commented about one character or another, and Tony focused on the scent of him. Sweet. Everything about Peter was sweet. He braced himself for the question Peter had asked one week ago, but it didn’t come.

_You’ll tell me if you want to leave, right?_

_I’ll tell you_.

Tony really fucking wanted to tell him, but there was a risk, non-negligible, that Peter might not insist he stayed, and the mere prospect of being discarded so easily sealed his lips. When the credits rolled, he set the empty bowl of popcorn to the side and sank to his knees to suck Peter’s cock, encouraging Peter to fuck his throat until it felt sore and Peter lost all coherency.

They moved to the shower somewhere between Peter’s third and fourth orgasm, and they brought each other off by hand, kissing each other until Tony had an appropriate reason to feel breathless. When the last detail of his plan fell into place, completely out of the blue, he tossed his towel to the floor and got Peter into bed, desperate to lose himself in the scent and feel of him.

_Tick, tock._

He spent a long time eating him out, pumping his tongue inside him and mouthing at his sensitive hole with desperate little noises that were so unlike him. Peter kept petting his hair, eyelids heavy from cumulative pleasure, already half-asleep. Every now and then, he’d whimper Tony’s name every, and accompany the praise with a lazy roll of his hips. His eyes were all pupils in the dark. The drag of his fingers was a constant reminder, a heat and pressure he would never find again.

_Stop._

When he couldn’t bear the distance anymore, he joined Peter in bed and draped himself all over him. He fucked him like this. No, this wasn’t fucking: he was making love to Peter, crying on the inside while he slid in and out of him as gently as he could—and he wasn’t physically able to do anything less right now. Peter came for a fifth time with his cock untouched, and Tony spilled inside him with the taste of blood in his mouth.

Peter gave a contented sigh, and pulled him into his arms, under the covers.

“… love you, Tony.”

Tony’s mouth went dry. Peter nuzzled into his neck, and then sighed. He started snoring a few seconds later.

“I…”

The words were stuck in his throat. Fuck, he wanted to get drunk. And high, too. But he wasn’t about to leave Peter’s embrace.

_Tick, tock._

It would be foolish, to lose a single moment of this.

Even if he would forget it all.

*

_December 23, 2028_

Stark Tower was predictably well guarded—mainly by Old Tony’s own AI, that let in the much younger version of its creator as soon as the clammy palm touched the door.

“I wouldn’t have caused a scene,” Tony remarked out loud, but his tone lacked its usual bite.

The AI of _this_ tower, Friday, didn’t bother with a reply. Tony really hadn’t expected anything else, and he told himself he wasn’t disappointed. This was a _glorious_ day, that was going to end in an equally glorious night, because here he was, about to meet his older self and travel through time for the second time in as many months. The fact that he’d gotten so far—allowed, through Karen and Friday, to leave one tower and enter. People would kill to be in his shoes. Which was nothing new, of course, and totally the kind of trivial thoughts Tony was willing to focus on right now.

He took stock of the tower’s black and white theme, the metallic furniture, everything screaming: future. He liked the style, and kind of wished he hated it.

“Friday?”

Silence. Tony knew he should consider himself lucky. He’d been able to leave Peter’s tower totally unnoticed, after all. The ride over had been smooth, in a self-driven car with tainted windows and advances electronics that had left Tony indifferent. Part of him had been glad the doors remained locked, with an override he didn’t have—and he would know, because he’d tried, in one of his usual fits of recklessness.

“This way.”

Friday’s accent was really nice, but the glacial tone needed some work. What had Karen told Friday? What did two AIs created by the same man discussed about at night?

So many questions, so little time.

He almost screamed in frustration, but managed to step into an elevator without opening his mouth or running in the opposite direction. As the door slid closed, he noted that the metallic gleam of the walls and the dimensions themselves were very similar to the elevator in Peter’s tower. It probably was not a coincidence. Tony fisted his hands at his sides, fully determined not to lose his composure in front of his older self. No doubt Old Tony was watching him right now, from a hundred miniaturized cameras he couldn’t see. _Peter_ , he thought, and the pain came back with a vengeance.

_Stop it._

He’d done the right thing by not telling Peter anything, and Karen had done the same following her own logic. She may have been created by Old Tony, but she was _Peter_ ’s AI, ultimately loyal to him and his interests. Tony supposed he should take comfort in the fact that Karen agreed with his plan to make things right for another version of himself—but more importantly, to make Peter happy. Some part of him was grateful. The rest was pretty much equally divided between anger and hate.

The doors chimed open. Tony’s stomach sank.

“Here he is, boss.”

The door in front of him opened, revealing a huge, well-lit lab full of technological goodies and bots that would totally fit in his own workshop back in the 80s. For an obvious reason.

And that reason stood right in front of him, arms crossed over a white wife-beater. The fifty-eight-year-old version of himself, eyes narrowed with suspicion, and some measure of curiosity.

Tony stuck his hands in his pocket and braced himself for the worst, but no, his body remained whole, untouched by the whims of a paradox.

Perhaps Old Tony had the same ridiculous thought, because he reached for his own face as though to make sure it was still there, intact and his.

Tony felt a mocking laugh bubbling up in his chest, but he didn’t let it out. He was slightly concerned that any attempt at humor (or mockery, or both) would dissolve into hysteria, and such a display wouldn’t grant him the credibility he needed under the circumstances.

He waited. His surroundings were a feast for the eyes, and he was in no hurry to leave these four dimensions.

_Tick, tock._

In his older self’s eyes, curiosity overcame suspicion.

“I wish I was more surprised than I am. How the fuck did you end here?”

 _By car_ , Tony almost deadpanned. “Actually, I thought _you_ might tell me,” he said instead, and gave himself a mental pat on the back. “Considering that _I_ haven’t invented time travel.”

“Protocol Black Hole, baby girl. Now tell me…”

Old Tony uncrossed his arms, and his hands turned to fists. He didn’t invite his visitor inside, so Tony remained in the doorway, one foot in the dark corridor, the other in the bright workshop, neither here nor there.

“Are you here for answers?”

 _There it is_ , Tony thought. The opening he’d been waiting for.

“I’m here because _you_ invented time travel.” At Old Tony’s closed expression, a horrifying thought occurred to him. “You _have_ invented time travel, right? Because if not I’m out of he—”

“Oh, I invented it all right.”

Only Tony slammed down the delicate instrument he’d been holding in one fist—one that Tony might have been interested in, under other circumstances. Old Tony radiated anger, but there was something else lurking beneath it, hidden for anyone but himself.

Fear.

“What did you do?”

Tony almost rolled his eyes. “Nothing you haven’t done before, obviously. Look—”

“No, _you_ look. You have no business being here, in that time, messing things up.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who _keeps messing things up_.”

“What was that?”

“Am I really getting deaf in my old age or just a little slow?” Tony sneered.

Old Tony was suddenly right in his face, jaw tight and nostrils flaring. Tony felt a pang of cruel satisfaction upon witnessing the panic in not-quite-his eyes. _You should thread carefully with the one who comes bearing gifts_ , he almost said, but he had to choose his words with care. And refrain from screaming, or punching his older self in the face.

They stared each other down for what felt like a small eternity. Tony could smell liquor on his older self’s breath. It was faint, but definitely there. For half a second, he was tempted to lick into that mouth to get a taste. The idea should disturb him, but he’d gone through some highly uncomfortable self-actualization in the past four days, too much for something as mundane as the mental image of kissing himself to unnerve him.

He watched his older self watch him. They couldn’t be thinking exactly the same thing, but some of the threads had to be shared. They were, after all, the same person thirty-five years apart.

“What do you remember of the time you were twenty-three?” he asked idly.

“Lots of alcohol and poor decision-making.”

The amount of self-hate contained in that single statement stung.

“Well, I’m perfectly sober right now, and you get to take the decisions tonight,” he said. “That is, after you listen to what I’ve come to say. You think you can do that, or are you too busy wallowing in self-recrimination, _old man_?”

“You little shit—”

A calloused hand fisted in the collar of his shirt, and yanked until Tony stumbled forwards. Okay, so maybe he should have kept his mouth shut, but he really hadn’t deserved the distrust.

“I’m stranded here,” he said, voice only a little thin. He made a conscious effort to wipe the challenging smirk from his lips, and the pressure at his throat relaxed. “If I’m here, in this time, it’s through no mishap of my own. I was at home, and then I was here, in a city I didn’t recognize.”

“How long?”

“Long enough.”

“I want a number,” Old Tony hissed.

Tony almost spit in that old, handsome face that Peter couldn’t stop thinking about. What about what _he_ wanted? What about the one thing, the one person he fucking nee—

 _Breathe_.

“A couple of weeks,” he said, which was true enough. He probably could have lied to himself, and believed it, considering how thirty-five years down the road, he had (would have) mastered the art of lying to himself so thoroughly he would miss the truth staring straight at him.

“I didn’t do anything rash,” he added.

 _I fell in love with the man in love with you_.

He felt slightly faint. _Focus._ He inhaled deeply, and the grip at his throat relaxed further.

“So, this is what happened…”

He’d rehearsed his little tale, and fed it to his older self one plausible morsel at a time, exaggerating the lazy drawl he’d apparently lose sometime in the next several decades. Eventually, Old Tony seemed to realize that he wasn’t about to strangle himself and offered his visitor a chair instead. The offer for a drink didn’t come, and Tony hated himself even more. He’d smelled scotch on his older self’s breath, and he’d wanted a last drink while he still remembered what it tasted like, paired to Peter’s mouth. To Peter’s moans.

_Mr. Stark!_

_STOP._

He gave Old Tony the smile he’d reserved for dear old dad, when the controlling fuck had still been alive.

“So. Can you send me back?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course, but Old Tony had to be coaxed in the right direction. _Tony_ was the one who held all the pieces, for all that he’d only experienced half the life he was bound to have.

“I can.”

Old Tony led him to another part of the workshop well hidden behind a perfectly innocent wall. When Friday turned on the lights and the time machine appeared before their eyes, Old Tony answered a few of his questions—carefully chosen to spike his interest—with a mixture of reluctance and eagerness. He didn’t expound on its inner workings or the theory behind it, though, and slipped some questions of his own in between his answers, perhaps thinking that he could trick him a younger version of him into revealing more than he wanted.

Tony almost laughed again.

A little before midnight, after Old Tony had finally offered him a drink—sadly, only soda—he heard the question that marked the next step in his plan.

“Why don’t I remember this meeting from your point of view? Besides a few blacks out, I have a pretty good memory. “Unless I…” Old Tony trailed off and set his glass to the side. _He_ was indulging in the good stuff, and predictably, it was the same brand as the bottle in Peter’s office.

_Stop. Thinking. About. Him._

“I made myself forget,” Tony thought out loud, eyes widening at the realization. “But why?”

“I’m most concerned about the _how_ , honestly. I hope you have something better than punching me in the face.”

Tony didn’t acknowledge the comment. In all probability, he hadn’t even heard him. Tony forced himself to remain calm and sip his fucking soda. He had to let it happen. Step by step. He kept his eyes trained on his older self, and swallowed back a sigh of mixed relief and impatience when Old Tony retreated to the far corner of the lab to extract something from a safe. He knew he was going to forget. His older self had basically confirmed it. And that was the only measure of comfort he had. The knowledge that he wasn’t going to wait thirty-five years for Peter with the memories of their time together torturing him.

The man who returned with a helmet of sorts wasn’t one who’d had to suffer through decades of yearning. A few years, at most. Old Tony may not even know that sweet, sweet Peter loved his pancakes on that side of too hot, and he certainly didn’t know that _the kid_ enjoyed a little tongue when—

_Enough!_

“… you’re not even listening to me, are you?”

Tony was glad he’d remained straight-faced. “You tell me,” he quipped back, and lifted his glass in a mocking toast. “That’s the thing?”

“It is.”

To Tony’s surprise, his older self seemed uncertain. No, worse: Old Tony was _fretting._ “It’s not exactly mainstream technology, and I can’t guarantee—”

He _was_ getting slow, wasn’t he?

“I don’t have to know how it works to know that he does, and so do you,” Tony interrupted him. He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, but his older self was looking at him with renewed suspicion, and the truth threatened to spill over. A plea, to let him go. To have this. _Him._ “Just…” He squeezed the empty glass of soda in between his thighs before he could lose his cool and throw it. The robot that had rolled up to him beeped somewhat sadly at him. Tony was tempted to reach for it, but he suspected that it would only make that awful ache worse.

He dipped his chin. “Just make it happen,” His knuckles had turned white around the glass. A plastic glass, with little purple bows, two of them slightly erased. He gripped it tighter still, and held his breath until that scream stopped scratching at his throat. “Just do it. That’s how… That’s how it should be,” he choked.

“You don’t believe in destiny.”

“Of course not!” Tony’s head snapped up. “But we both believe in causality, and for you to be here, today…” He jerked his chin at the contraption in his older self’s hands. “You have to send me back without my memories of the last month.”

The shock on his older self’s face was almost comical.

“I thought you say _a couple of weeks_ , you lying little shit.”

“Four weeks is _a couple_ , last time I checked.” Tony gritted his teeth, and reminded himself that punching that handsome face wasn’t an option. He didn’t know how the helmet worked and couldn’t risk losing its creator’s cooperation. “Besides, I’m only rounding up the number to be on the safe side. You still like to be safe once in a while, don’t you?”

“ _Why_ do you want to forget?”

“I don’t want anything!” Tony almost shouted the words. He was standing now, empty-handed, the plastic glass with its goddamn bows rolling away under a table, hunted down by the sad-beeping bot. “It changes nothing,” he said, barely calmer. He’d never hated the stubborn jut of his jaw before, but he certainly did now. “What part of ‘wipe my memory clean’ don’t you understand? You do that, and then I forget about any of this, which means that _you_ don’t remember ever meeting me until this moment, and this is how it should be, already _is_ , because you obviously don’t remember this meeting from my perspective. Got any more stupid question, old man?!”

His older safe took a step back, and almost tripped over the bot. His eyes were very wide, and the fear from before was back. Tony remembered vividly that look in the mirror. A fractured face, tears on his cheeks and blood on his hand. He rubbed at his healing knuckles and bit the inside of his cheek while Old Tony opened and closed his mouth repeatedly in his best imitation of a fish out of water. He really looked ridiculous in that wife-beater, but that may just be jealousy talking, because the mental picture of Peter marveling at those strong, muscled arms was definitely crossing his mind.

“Why—What did I ever do to you?”

Tony knew better than to answer that question. He was too wound up—too angry, too desperate, too fucking sad—for anything but the truth to spill out at this point.

“Okay.” His older self sank down into his own chair and turned the helmet around in his hands. “Okay, we’re doing this.”

“Thank you.”

It sounded a lot more like _fuck you_ , but Old Tony just gestured at him to come over and lie down to the used couch.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

“Can I have some of that scotch first?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Fuck you, old man.”

Old Tony ignored him. “Before we do this…”

Tony had lain down on the couch and closed his eyes. He didn’t bother opening them up again. “What now?”

“Are you _sure_ there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“I could tell you how this thing works. It’s kind of a work in progress, you know. Dum-E, give us some space, okay? Look, that device has only been used on the Winter—”

 _Is Old Tony babbling to win time?_ was Tony’s first thought, quickly followed by: _What a fitting name._

“Do I look like I want to hear my own voice?” he cut in, showing impatience and past caring. “Get me home, old man. I _want_ to leave.”

There was a kernel of truth in every lie. Of course, he didn’t want to leave Peter. But he also wanted the best for him, and the best—even though it was very hard to think of his older self in those terms right now—was the fifty-eight-year-old version of himself. With that in mind, and the graphic notion of what would ineluctably happen after Tony gave his counterpart a little nudge in the right direction, he definitely didn’t want to linger around when the star-crossed lovers hit the sheets.

“Here you go…”

The helmet, when Old Tony fitted it over his brow, was light, and slightly cool. He rubbed his clammy hands on his jeans and squeezed his eyelids tighter. His older self adjusted the helmet, the motions efficient and strangely gentle. Tony hated him. He really did.

“It’s going to be fine.”

Tony snorted, half-disgusted at himself and the need for comfort he hurried to deny. “If I can trust you with anything, it’s our competence when it comes to technology, old man. Of course, it’s going to be fine. You’re standing here.”

“Technically, I’m sitting.”

“Fuck you,” Tony replied reflexively.

It sounded more like _thank you_.

The helmet whirred to life. Tony’s breath caught. He had the sudden urge to speak up, and make absolutely sure that what he meant to happen would happen. After all, those two idiots had ignored the obvious and denied each other for years, and there was just no way Tony was sacrificing his own happiness for nothing. No. Fucking. Way.

“How long?”

“Give it twenty seconds.”

Old Tony sounded tense.

Well, Tony could relate.

_Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…_

“You may be better than me in some respects…”

_Thirteen, twelve…_

“But I know better than to tell _him_ no.”

“What?”

The urgency in the older man’s voice was gratifying. Comforting. An assurance.

_Eight, seven, six…_

“If you want to know what I’ve been up to these last couple of weeks…”

_Three…_

“You’ll have to ask the cute twink on the fortieth floor.”

*

_November 24, 1993_

Tony opened the door to his lab and flipped on the lights. One bulb remained stubbornly dark.

He sat down in the middle of his equations about a revolutionary power source. The blueprints appeared untouched, and yet foreign. He crouched, and frowned. His fingers skimmed over the longest equation. It was definitely his handwriting, and his idea. He flipped the sheet around, and stared at the notes scribbled at the bottom. Rhodey had apparently drawn a smiley face when he wasn’t looking.

 _Dummy_ , Tony called him in his mind.

It didn’t sound quite right. To be fair, everything about… this room, these things, _him_ , felt a little strange. The fact that he couldn’t recall the last couple of hours was nothing unusual if he’d drunk a little too much, but he could tell he hadn’t indulged in a single glass tonight.

Tonight? He glanced down at his watch, surprised to see the time.

Time… The word echoed strangely in his mind, but he couldn’t stay why. There was a phantom pain in his chest that he couldn’t place, and for a while, he just stared at his ideas spread on that piece of paper. At the future he envisioned. He wondered how it would be, one year from now. A decade. The kind of man he would become, thirty-odd years from now.

“Tony? Are you all right?”

Jarvis stood in the doorway, concern coming off of him in waves. For some reason he couldn’t place, Tony really wanted to hug him, like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks. He remembered having breakfast with him, though, and the exact words he’d been told as he’d set down his third mug of coffee.

_Please take care of yourself, Tony._

He dismissed the feeling and went to grab a beer in the mini-fridge. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just peachy.”

With a tentative smile, Jarvis informed him that supper would be waiting for him upstairs if he got hungry. Tony thanked him and returned to his spot on the floor. Dust clung to his pants immediately. He should probably clean the place up a bit at some point, since the maid wasn’t allowed down here. Only a select few had access to his safe haven. People who deserved his trust. Jarvis. Rhodey. His mother, before.

And…

He tilted his head back and downed the beer. It tasted too bitter. He undid the first button of his shirt, and couldn’t understand why the sweet scent trapped in the fabric made his gut twist. He probably looked ridiculous, face pressed into the collar, fingers twisting into the soft fabric. He didn’t recall owning something so soft, but of course, he did. He was Tony Stark, and Tony Stark had only had the very best.

He tried to release the shirt, but his fingers remained frozen in position. His heart pounded, as if it was trying to escape. For the life of him, he couldn’t explain why his eyes stung.

He didn’t remember what Peter’s smile looked like. The sound of his voice was unknown to him, and so was the heat of his body. His last name, _Stark_ , had no jealousy linked to it, and what little anger it evoked stemmed from his failed relationship with his late father.

Somewhere far, far away, he was falling in love with the young man he’d forgotten—all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is welcome <3


	5. Mr. Stark — The Art of Self-Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something was up with the kid.

_December 23, 2028_

Something was up with the kid. The text Tony was staring at just made it obvious that others had noticed as well.

 _Rhodey [3:04am]_ : Something’s up with the kid, Tones? Apparently, he’s 'not sure' he’s coming to the party this year.

This message wasn't the first of its kind today. Tony had received similar texts and emails almost every day of this never-ending week. Even _Bruce_ had gotten involved with one sparsely worded, handwritten note, and God knew his lab bro kept clear of all the Tower DramaTM.

Tony could feel a headache coming. With a curse, he tossed the phone on the table and dug the heel of his palm into his eyes. “When is something _not_ up with the kid?”

His phone chimed with another incoming message. He ignored it and propped his feet on the table, closing his eyes for a bit. The mouth-watering scent of freshly brewed coffee, courtesy of his girl, drifted to his nostrils, but waking up had lost its appeal somewhere in the last five minutes. His bed was calling to him. Last night hadn’t been productive in the sleep department, and the night before had been pretty much a solo game of Twister in his bed. It wouldn’t be long before he passed out somewhere inappropriate and pissed off Pepper, or the bunch of sycophants making up his board of directors. At least the adrenaline would keep him from dropping from the sky mid-fight. Not that there were many villains that required Iron Man's interventions these days. Must be the snow putting everyfuckingbody in a festive mood.

"For fuck's sake!"

His phone was vibrating furiously. An incoming call, this time. Tony had half a mind to blast it off the table, but what would be the point? People would keep calling, and that goddamn StarkPhone was practically indestructible. He’d designed it this way. Just like his nanite suit. Which he improved constantly—right after he’d upgraded _Peter_ ’s suit. That was the one thing he worked the most on, for obvious reasons. Well, obvious to a select group of three, and Peter wasn’t among them. For equally obvious reasons.

He tried to kick at the still vibrating phone, but the tip of his shoe barely brushed it. 

“Fri, will you be a dear and mute that fucking phone?”

The screen went black, and the phone stilled. 

_Fucking finally._

The smell of coffee lingered in his nostrils, a thankful reprieve from the dust he kept inhaling from one too many nightmares. Tony raked a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. He knew he was being unfair. Peter had all the reasons in the world to jump back and forth over that line called avoidance, reaching out to Tony for an overdue science-themed brainstorm, only to ignore his calls for a whole week afterwards. The kid fucking deserved to lead that particular dance, and Tony’s only job was to make sure he didn’t step on his toes. So what if he wasn’t meant to follow, and never had been? Peter was worth it. And if following meant picking up the phone as soon as Peter called even if the kid has ignored _his_ call for two whole weeks, well, that was the price he had to pay to stay in Peter’s life. And he would keep paying it. 

At least half his joints cracked as he stood up. He stretched out his arms, and heard something in his shoulder pop ominously. 

“I’m getting old.”

“You say that every year, boss,” Friday deadpanned.

“Sassy, are we?” 

On the island counter, a large mug of coffee—black like his soul—awaited him. He picked it up and just stood there, relishing the heat and the strong scent of his extra-large, extra-unconventional espresso. The kitchen was almost completely quiet. The only sounds he could hear were his own breathing, and the discreet humming of the appliances. There was no fight going on. No one dying, at least no one he knew personally. It was two thirty-five in the afternoon, and outside, it was snowing.

He dragged his feet back to the living room and grabbed his phone like a condemned man. His thumb hovered over Peter’s smiling face. The picture changed every now and then, but Peter's face was always in it, his smile directed at someone else. So what if Tony liked to torture himself? It was nothing more than a glimpse of what awaited him in the Great Below.

Instead of pressing ‘call’ like he really wanted, he sank back into his chair and answered Rhodey, typing a vague explanation one-handed. As soon as he was done, he pocketed the slick black phone and resolved to ignore it for the foreseeable future. Unless, of course, Peter called. Which he seldom did. But just in case, Friday knew to tell him.

The avoiding part of their tentative friendship wasn’t new. What _was_ new, or rather eerie, was how Peter had acted on that video call four days ago. He’d worn too many masks, and Tony could see past them, of course he could, but what he'd uncovered beneath had sparked his concern. There had been... a mess of contradictory emotions lurking in Peter’s eyes, lacing the words he’d both thrown at him like weapons and held close like a shield. Anger, impatience, exasperation—and more puzzling, yearning. Want. The kind Tony was so sure Peter had learned to bury over time.

What could have happened, for Peter to act as though all those years had been erased?

For Peter to be angry at him?

Peter had gotten quite good at calling Tony out on his bullshit, but what little bullshitting Tony had been up to lately didn’t justify that anger. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d say that Peter was disappointed in him somehow. But why? What had he done this time?

The coffee in his cup didn't hold any answer.

Tony hated not to know. And if he was being honest with himself, which didn’t happen all that often, he hated the idea of Peter not needing him—in any capacity. There were days and nights, too many of them, when he wished Peter would call and say the words Tony kept dreaming about. That Peter would say that he'd tried, but he couldn't do it.

Couldn't move on. 

The mere fact of wishing this to happen made him a bad man, Tony was well aware but what else was new? At least, he wasn't planning to say anything. For Peter's sake, mainly, but also because he wasn't about to make such a fool of himself if he was misreading Peter’s yearning in a naïve fit of wishful thinking. And even if he wasn't seeing things that weren't there, he has no assurance that Peter didn't feel that way for someone else.

He tried to focus on his coffee, but something in Peter’s demeanor during that call kept gnawing at him. Too high an excitability. A restlessness that didn’t stem from nerves alone, and yet an obvious satisfaction. For a moment, he’d almost looked… empowered. 

_Well fucked, you mean._

The flare of jealousy really shouldn't take him by surprise.

“Fuck!”

He spilled coffee on his hand, and almost dropped the mug. Fuck this. Fuck his jealousy. Fuck his fucking wants. This wasn’t about him! He _would_ be happy the day Peter brought a pretty young woman—or a handsome fellow—to the Tower to 'meet the family". The lucky person he slept with would be greeted with respect. Hell, Tony would smile and shook hands like the proud mentor he was, and not consider how easy it would be to blast the competition to smithereens. Because there was no competition. Not when Tony had left the competition years ago, like the coward he was. 

A responsible coward was still a coward.

“Fri, music, please.”

AC/DC blasted through the speakers. It didn’t quite drown his thoughts, but it was a start. Tony picked up his tablet and played around with the blueprints of the new arc reactor he was supposed to hand out to Thor’s people. There were a hundred emails labeled ‘URGENT’ blinking at him from the side. He banished the bunch of them with a swap of the thumb and fixed the little glitch in his plans of the reactor. Physics he could handle right now, but nothing else.

Of course, his thoughts circled back to Peter fast enough.

He’d thought that the kid was happier, lately. More confident, focused. Busy with his work, Avenging, and Spider-Man. Too busy, maybe, like Tony tended to be when he was navigating the dark waters of that infamous river in Egypt. So, he'd checked up on him. The problem with being so obsessed with Peter’s happiness was that he _had_ to keep tabs on him. Nothing like the Training Wheel Protocol, because he’d disabled that feature a while ago and liked to think he kept his darker impulses in check, but he looked round. On the Web, where Peter’s presence was elusive and not exactly predictable, or regular, but Tony had subscribed to all the channels available. He'd made a point to be invested in the kid’s business, which he would have done regardless of, well, everything.

He didn’t know why he kept thinking of Peter like this. _Kid_.

Right. As if he hadn't known for the last four years.

The coffee sloshing at the bottom of his mug seemed to taunt him. He narrowed his eyes at the unicorn bursting out of a cloud of purple dust on the outside, near the handle. This wasn’t Morgan’s mug, he was sure of it. Clint’s, then. He should drop it and pretend it was an accident. Dum-E would love the opportunity to misuse a broom again.

When Pepper stalked into the living room and had Friday turn off the music and adjust the lights to a higher setting, he hurried to put that list of emails on the screen. He was already skimming through the first attached document by the time heels clicked at his back. Another fucking contract. Fucking _wonderful_. At least he just had to put his name after the little asterisk, which he did with a lazy swirl of his index finger.

“You’ll have to work better at pretending if you want to convince me you’ve been at his less than five seconds, Tony.”

… and so much for his efforts.

“I was busy,” he said, but it sounded fake, grade-school fake, and he could sense Pepper tensing up. “I swear I’m not pretending anymore." He swirled in his chair and pointed at his signature with exaggerated pride. "I’m actually working now. Happy?” 

“If you keep at it.”

Tony kept at it for exactly twelve minutes. By then, Pepper had claimed the chair at the other end of the table, probably to steer clear of the dark cloud of self-pity surrounding him. She’d always been the perceptive one. Too clever by half, and so much better than him. She was much better off without him, with someone who could love her like she deserved. She made a wonderful CEO, _and_ Happy happy.

"So."

Pepper was typing on her laptop diligently, watching-but-not-watching him in the unique way she managed to oversee everything.

"So what?" Tony said, ignoring the urge to flee to his lab and hide there forever.

“You look awfully distracted for a man reviewing life-altering documents,” Pepper said, the rhythm of her fingers hitting the keyboards not slowing down. “Is there something more important on your mind?”

 _Like Peter_? He tried to focus on the text on his screen, but the annoying voice at the back of his mind kept talking. _You’re not going to forget that well-fucked look on him anytime soon. That's the four to the two plus two of Peter’s hot and cold behavior, and you know it, and you’re fucking jealous._

He shoved that train of thoughts to the back of his mind, past all those painful memories that kick-started his nightmares, pushing it down, down, down, until Pepper’s face replaced Peter’s in front of his eyes. He shook his head for good measure, and drained his coffee. Well, tried to—the mug was already empty.

In the kitchen, the coffee machine whirred to life.

“Sorry.” He took in the I’m-pissed-at-you-and-you-know-why look of his ex-girlfriend, mother of his child, and current CEO of SI. “I swear I’m not doing it on purpose,” he added, because some truth more or less delivered in an apologetic tone always went a long way in earning him some slack.

“Tony.”

Or not.

“You should talk to Peter.”

_Hell no!_

The gleam in Pepper’s eyes made it clear she could read the words from his facial’s expression alone. Tony sat straighter, abandoning all pretense of working.

“I’m not going to force him to come to the party if he doesn’t want to.” He realized he was fiddling with the side of his tablet, and made himself stop. “He has other friends.”

“ _Tony_.”

God, he hated being so transparent.

“Just talk to him, okay?”

“I talked to him four days ago, and texted him yesterday.”

“And?”

And nothing. Peter was busy. Or pretending to be. And fucking. Maybe. And it was Tony’s _fucking_ job to swallow that bitter pill, even though the mere thought of someone else’s hands on Peter’s body made him foam at the mouth. Not that it mattered. Peter’s happiness was what mattered. God knew it had required a lot of effort on his part to get a smile out of Peter after the disastrous tête-à-tête in Shuri’s lab. He kept telling himself that he’d done the right thing back then. As much as he’d wanted to say _yes_ and lose himself in Peter’s kisses, his moans, his _love_ , as much as he’d wanted to say the words himself and worship Peter’s body right here and then in the heart of technological prowess, he’d held back. Done the responsible thing, for once. And Peter had moved on, hadn’t he? Surely that yearning wasn't meant for him—if it was there at all. 

But what if it hadn’t been wishful thinking, and the want Peter hadn't been able to hide was real, and all _his_?

What if Peter still wanted him? What if just like Tony, he couldn't stop thing about—

What if he'd told Peter the truth back then? The kid had been 17, temptingly legal in Wakanda. Tony could have fucked him right there on that work table, and he knew, he just knew, that Peter would have been over the fucking moon _._ But he’d lied. Because he’d wanted to do the right thing and give the kid a choice for once in his life. He'd meant (still did) to let him have his pick of people who would treat him right—people who weren’t old enough to be his fucking father, for one. Peter deserved a partner who wasn't constantly dealing with a fuck ton of issues on a good day, who didn't wake up screaming from his nightmares when he managed to sleep at all, and who didn't go on creative/destructive benders for days on end because the only other option was getting drunk until he couldn’t recall why he should hate himself.

“… Tony?”

The hand on his shoulder startled him. It was shaking. Unless he was the one shaking? His lungs felt on fire. He glanced down at his hands, hands he couldn't sense, and he saw dust oozing from his fingertips, eating up the table, the kitchen, the present.

“Hey.” Pepper squeezed his shoulder gently. “Take a deep breath.”

 _Breathe_.

He leaned back with a wounded noise, and let Pepper’s soothing voice replace Peter's pleas from the day he'd died.

*

_December 24, 2028_

_“You’ll have to ask the cute twink on the fortieth floor.”_

Tony watched the spot where his younger self had stood mere moments ago, confused but malleable, like Bucky was after a session.

 _Fuck_.

He could hardly kill himself without causing serious problems for the rest of the universe. It was a fact, and the reason why he’d sent back his younger self butt first into the 80s instead of inventing a new form of torture in their shared name. But doing the right thing, if only to save himself the headache of dying again, didn’t change the way he felt about the bomb that had been dropped on him.

This younger version of himself—had he really been that insufferable at that age?—had waltzed into his tower and demanded to be sent back to his time without his memories of the past month. A _couple of weeks_ that he'd spent in New York, which Friday had not seen fit to mention. She even waived the ignorance card, and Karen, when he tried to reach her, just plain ignored him.

What. The. Fuck.

Of course, he didn’t remember this encounter with this other him, what with the memories having been wiped from his mind just now, and simultaneously thirty-five years ago. But he'd just experienced that encounter for the second time, from the other perspective. It was fresh. Excruciatingly so. 

The balls on that young, arrogant version of him…

 _“But I know better than to tell_ him _no.”_

His younger self had totally slept with Peter… which meant that the want in Peter’s eyes, that well-fucked look, hadn’t been a product of his imagination after all.

Anger slashed through him, and for a moment, he couldn't think past the rage. The first punch he gave the wall didn't hurt enough, so he did it again. Pain jolted up his arm, his bad arm, the one he'd used to make that wish that saved half the universe, and fuck, _fuck,_ what if he'd wished for something else at that moment, what if the stones had picked up on that other want, the selfish want of a very selfish man, and he'd—

Punching the wall helped. It made the rage more bearable, if only because it helped him focus on the facts. On Peter.

He couldn’t hack into Peter’s tower or surveillance system, and even if he tried, Karen had been designed to stop him. Friday would side with her, because one of her favorite pleasures in life was keeping him away from the bad kind of temptation, and did he want her to lock down the lab to prove that he was being unreasonable?

“I’m not unreasonable,” he gritted through his teeth.

The ten-thousand-dollar chip he picked up from the work table ended up crushed between two fingers. Delicate electronics, broken, drifted to the floor, little more than dust. Fucking dust. He hated dust.

"I'm not unreasonable," he said again, addressing the broken chip. He stepped on it and squished it further under one heel.

“I beg to disagree, boss.”

His nostrils flared. “How could you keep such a big thing away from me?” he snarled.

“You once mentioned something about a dance you couldn’t lead.”

Tony bit down his tongue so hard he tasted blood. How many millions of dollars worth of material would he need to destroy before that sick feeling left his gut? “What if he'd fucked up the timeline? You thought about that? He's reckless enough to—”

“He never left the tower.”

“Well, thank fuck you’re finally sharing with the class!”

Friday’s silence was an accusation in and of itself. A scream built up in Tony’s chest. Fuck this. Fuck. This. He wanted a drink. If Rhodey hadn’t emptied his cache _again_ just the week before, he would totally be drinking right now. His Platypus, always the loyal canary, teaming up with his AIs to keep him from going too far.

The fucking piece of shit he’d been in his twenties had _definitely_ gone too far.

Nanites leaped from their housing unit and formed around his fist. A beam of energy formed at his fingertips and scorched the wall behind his couch. Another hit took care of the motorcycle he’d been painstakingly restoring over the last few months. With a roar, Tony kicked at a twisted, blackened piece of rim, and then aimed at it again, just to watch it crumble onto itself, pitiful and fucking _dead_. There was no satisfaction in watching the efforts he’d put into this project go up in smoke, but he kept kicking at random pieces within his reach, and blasted to smithereens those that were too far away.

A sad beeping noise heralded Dum-E’s arrival with the fire extinguisher.

"Don't..."

Tony banged his head against the wall, which did nothing to help with the headache pounding inside his skull. The laughter tumbling from his lips sounded hysterical, and nothing he wanted to share with the world. His eyes roamed over the destruction he’d caused, and all he could see was Peter standing on Titan’s red soil in a tuxedo he hadn’t worn until much later, an anachronism that tugged at his heartstrings so fiercely that the dark rage left him in a rush. 

The nanites retracted close to his racing heart. 

_Breathe_.

He stumbled to the side and elbowed some piece of equipment or another. There was a loud crash that seemed to come from both around and inside him.

_Breathe, damn it._

He'd known how that went, once. Something to do with lungs? Air? He shouldn't even have to think.

“Incoming call from Natasha.”

“Denied,” he rasped.

As much as he hated his life, he hated himself more. For the mistakes he'd done. And now, for almost getting what he wanted. How long exactly had this younger version of him spent with Peter? How deep had this Tony carved a place for himself in Peter’s heart? The confused amalgam of emotions Peter had displayed during that video call made so much more sense, now.

This younger Tony’s decision to come to him alter ego didn’t. It really didn’t. Because if Tony had to guess—and this was _himself_ they were talking about here—he’d say that all the anger and hate the time-traveler had directed at him stemmed from a desire to stay, despite his clear decision to leave. This younger version of Tony had asked what he remembered of the time he’d been twenty-three. And _his_ answer had been immediate, and bitter. He knew how he’d been. Reckless, and uncaring. Firm in his belief that the fucking universe was his to claim if he so wished. Love would have been beyond him at this age.

Except.

What had his younger self said again?

_“You may be better than me in some respects…”_

“Shit.”

“What’s the matter, boss?”

Tony didn’t answer. Couldn’t talk. Those words, they hadn't been a taunt, or sarcasm... They'd been a fucking justification. A gamble, from a version of him that lacked thirty-five years of experience on the other and yet could manipulate him(self) just the same.

 _Make a move. He’s yours_. _Still is._

That was what his younger self had meant. And the bit he’d added, about not saying _no_ to Peter, was to rile him up and make him jealous, yes, but first and foremost to _make sure_ that he would make a move... just in case fifty-eight-year-old Tony missed the obvious fact that his younger self was leaving so that _he_ , the Tony who was in his right time, may act on the feelings he had...

... that they _both_ had?

Tony had invented time travel and saved half the universe by wielding semi-sentient infinity stones, and yet he struggled to accept the concept of his younger self materializing in the future, in _his_ present, to fall in love with Peter and then ask his alter ego to tamper with his memories and send him back.

_Fuck._

At twenty-three, he’d been in love. And then he’d forgotten. Of course, his younger self had wanted to forget. In _his_ time, Peter wasn’t even born. He’d had to wait more than thirty years before he even met him, and—

Tony pressed a fist to his mouth, eyes widening and seeing nothing. The hope he’d never quite had the strength to crush flared to life, a full-grown star with Peter’s name at its core that burnt every inch of him, inside out. His skin felt too tight, too hot. There was so little space left inside him for anything good, even that fucking hope. He was a second-rate hero, a mess of a man who'd pushed back the frontiers of science and couldn't stick to his own limits either. His private life was a disaster splattered all over the news, and his heart was a mess, cut open and stitched back together not quite right, broken through betrayal, and mended through sheer force of will. 

And he’d broken Peter’s heart. At least once, and maybe twice, if the other him hadn’t told Peter anything before leaving, and he wouldn't have, or Peter would be pounding on his door right now.

_The ball’s in your court now, old man._

Tony could almost hear the mocking voice of his younger self across the years.

The hope burnt so bright, almost as bright as Peter's smile from before that lie. That _no._

“Fri, I’m going out for a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thrilled to have you along for the ride, dear readers. Know that your love is treasured <3


	6. Mr. Stark — The Fitting of Consumed Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m so angry at you. Both of you.” A single tear trailed down Peter’s cheek. “But _I_ ’m not stupid enough to let you go.”
> 
> Tony’s heart did a painful double flip. “Does that mean—”
> 
> “Yes.”

He walked the 7.2 miles between the two towers. The suit would have been more convenient, more logical, but he’d foregone it and muted Friday’s concerns about his health. So what if the cold December air made his knees ache after the second mile? He wasn't always in denial. That number starting with a '6' that should have been mathematically neutral but somehow wasn't, not for him, was waiting for him just around the corner. Tony sensed it. He knew he was old. Fifty was kind of old. Fifty-eight _was_ old. And sixty... No matter what his driving license said, he was too old for a mad walk of redemption at ass o'clock. Hope wasn't rational, though. And Tony was only human.

Halfway to his destination, he sank down on a bench by the side of the road. The metal was cold even through the coat, and his legs felt weak. He could barely sense his face, and it wasn’t for the lack of expensive woof keeping it warm. Tonight, he felt every one of his fifty-eight years, and not in a flattering, I'm-wise-and-clever way. Right now would be the perfect moment to go back to the tower, and pretend nothing happened. Stopping at a corner store on the way, and buy a bottle of cheap but strong alcohol he could take to bed with him. Being a disappointment to himself was an art he'd mastered eons ago.

_But._

His younger self’s words rang in his ears, impossible to forget.

All the words Peter hadn’t said were just as impossible to ignore.

What man was strong enough to deny two versions of himself, _and_ Peter? If the kid still wanted him after all those years, flaws and all, old and fallible... Who was Tony to say _no_ for the second time?

His fingers itched for his phone, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to call. The masochistic part of him yearning for punishment hoped that Peter would be out. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and brushed a few stray snowflakes off the sleeves of his coat. The wind howled in his ears. He took in the tapestry of snow, all that white about to turn grey. There were very few cars on the road, and it dawned on him that for once, he was just another person wandering the streets late at night. No one special. For someone used to the limelight, it was a strange feeling, to be invisible.

He kept walking.

The tower he’d built but never owned grew bigger and bigger, a splash of gleaming windows against the night sky. There were no stars visible, but if Tony had to guess, he’d say several constellations had relocated in his ribcage, individual stars exploding in a series of miniature deaths that kept quickening his heartbeat. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so alive. And nervous. Despite the ache in his joints, there was a bounce in his step. A hopeful smile kept flickering on and off his lips as his thoughts shifted between hope and self-recrimination.

By the time he reached Peter’s tower, his mind was a whirlwind of contradictory scenarios and his hands were shaking. Taking off his gloves required more dexterity than he’d needed putting them on earlier. _Fucking nerves._ At least, the doors opened for him. He took a fortifying breath and stepped into the dark lobby, tucking his gloves into his coat pockets.

“Karen?" he called out in hushed tones. "Can you keep my visit a surprise?” 

“I could,” the AI replied, and the elevator doors opened to let him in. “… but I won’t. Peter has had enough surprises lately.”

The anger in Karen’s voice wasn’t entirely directed at him. Probably. Tony’s stomach still churned with guilt as the doors closed and the lift began its ascent. The abrupt stop on the fortieth floor was definitely a reproach.

"Pete?"

The doors slid open, revealing a living room filled with shadows. The lighting was dim, and mostly came from the illuminated cityscape stretching beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tony had to squint to make out Peter’s shape on the couch. 

"Tony."

Slowly, Peter rose to his feet. The lights brightened, just enough to expose the wrinkles in his perfectly tailored black suit, and the tightness in his jaw. The purple bags under his eyes.

The cold fury in their depths.

It was a good thing Tony had decided that his cowardly days were over. Stepping out of the elevator was the simplest thing, three steps, but that little flame of hope he'd held on to on his way over was threatening do die out under Peter's icy glare. He moved slowly, acutely aware of his status of unwanted guest. “We have to talk.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

Peter was suddenly standing right in his face. His hand hovered in front of Tony’s chest, as if to shove him back into the lift. Tony did his best impression of a statue. His heartbeat was hammering. There was no doubt in his mind that Peter could hear it, and would have been able to do so even without heightened senses. He licked his lips, one of the few nervous ticks he had and only seldom displayed. Beating around the bush wasn't an option, he knew that, but all the words he’d carefully constructed into a worthy apology stuck in his throat. “Pete—”

“What are you doing here, _Tony_?”

Tony gave a full-body flinch. It wasn’t the first time his own name was uttered like a curse, but it was the first time Peter used it this way. There was so much anger wrapped in the two syllables that Tony almost choked on it himself. His hands twitched with the need to touch and appease, but he controlled himself. He hadn’t earned the privilege back. Not yet. And while Peter's glacial reception didn’t bode well, Tony liked to think he’d faced worst odds. 

“If you’re here to lecture me—”

“That’s not the reason I came.”

“Then why? Don’t you have a party to oversee?”

“You weren’t there.”

Peter’s expression shifted in a subtle way. “That’s not…” He trailed off, and gave him a good once over. “Did you just _walk_ here?”

“I did.” Tony could feel the snow melting in his hair, and the ache getting worse in his knees. _Y_ _ou’re too old for him._ A flush threatened to creep up his cheeks, and he grasped for an explanation that might appease rather than provoke, not something he was very good at under the best circumstances. “I needed time to think about what I was going to say to you.”

“What is there to talk about?”

Peter’s fingers brushed the fabric of his coat, briefly, and Tony could see the tension in his body, could sense how close Peter was to throw him out, and shut him out of his life for a great deal longer than a few weeks. They stood inches apart, but never before had Tony felt such a chasm between them. 

“I had a visitor tonight.” There was no interruption, and Tony took it as the cue it was to elaborate. “Imagine my surprise when a twenty-three-year-old version of myself just walked into my Tower. Apparently, both our AIs have been complotting to allow him to come and see me in secret.” He kept his tone light, but serious. The balance was hard to maintain. “He had no idea how he arrived here, in our time.” The ‘our’ thing was a little daring, but Peter remained still, listening, or maybe considering the best way to kill both of _him_ slowly and painfully. Technically, Tony was both, so Peter wouldn’t have to go very far. _Come on,_ he chided himself. _Focus._ “He looked... distraught.”

“What did he want?”

 _Now you’re interested?_ Tony swallowed back the words. The hurt spreading in his chest was the least he deserved. “He asked me to send him back to his own time…” He almost stopped there, but Peter’s look was searching, _begging_ , and the rest of the confession passed his lips. “But before that happened, he asked me to make him forget the last month... Pete, wait!” _Fuck!_

Tony hurried after him. Okay, so he’d known that the last part about the other Tony asking to forget could be taken as rejection, but Peter hadn't given him the time to give the double-edged words the necessary context! If he'd just waited... “Pete!" he called out, bursting into an office not unlike his own. "The other me... Fuck, it's not what you think, okay? He only asked to forget because he couldn’t bear the idea to…”

The sight of the kid hurling a bottle at the wall shocked him into silence. Not the glass breaking part—destruction was rooted too deeply into his life for that. No: it was the fact that _Peter_ was the one doing the breaking that confounded him. The kid didn’t have a violent bone in his body. All the destruction he did was defensive, to protect others.

 _He could have changed while you weren’t looking_ , was his next thought.

The one that followed was worse.

_What if the other you did this to him?_

Part of him wanted Peter to grab him like that bottle and throw him at the wall. Break him, with his bare hands. Tony wasn’t all that solid without a suit, just scarred skin and fragile bones, a glass figure that Peter could shatter without that much effort. His eyes darted to the broken bottle of scotch on the floor—his latest gift, a distant part of his mind noted. Just like that bottle, he belonged to Peter. A poisoned gift that he could use or discard, ignore or appreciate. Every inch of him. Tony had played with the fabric of time itself to bring Peter back to life, and his heart, as flawed as it was, was Peter’s to claim, figuratively or otherwise.

“He promised he’d tell me. If he—If he wanted to…”

“Peter.” This was it. The missed opportunity—his second, and last, chance. “My alter ego didn’t want to remember because he couldn’t bear to _wait_ thirty-five years to be with you again.”

Peter’s head snapped in his direction. “He could have told me.”

Tony's gut clenched. Okay, so Peter was ignoring half of what he’d just said. Fair enough. That just meant he’d have to work harder. “Maybe he was afraid you’d change his mind,” he said.

“And that would be so bad,” Peter snarled.

 _Of course not_ , Tony almost said, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t lie. “What I can tell you is that he didn’t _want_ to leave. He really didn’t want to leave you, but he did it for you.”

Peter’s disbelief was plain.

Tony took a tentative step forward. “And for me,” he added softly, still grasping with the notion himself. “For us.”

“What?”

Peter had covered half of the distance between them before Tony realized he’d done the same. Tony could feel the warm puff of Peter’s breath on his face, and the need to touch him became unbearable. He reached for the kid’s face, brushing one cheek tenderly, greedy fingers rediscovering the soft, hairless skin. When Peter didn’t reject the touch—when he went as far as to lean into the callused palm, eyes wide and wet, chock-full of emotions—Tony found the words he’d been searching for.

“He trusted me to fix my mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“Something I’ve said, and shouldn't have said. ” Tony couldn’t stand the hurt in Peter’s eyes, and the lengthy explanation he was about to give was replaced by the words he’d kept hidden for too long. “I love you.”

Disbelief wiped the hurt from Peter's face. 

“I love you,” Tony said again. This time, the words sounded like a promise rather than a plea for forgiveness. "And I’d bet my life that _he_ did as well.”

“You don’t. You can’t,” Peter choked out, stumbling back towards his desk. He pointed an accusing finger at him, eyes wide and _scared_. “You told me you didn’t—You’re not even _attracted_ to me—”

“I lied, okay? I was—am, fuck, I’ve been in love with you for years!”

“I fucking hate you!”

Peter didn’t leave the room entirely, which Tony counted as a tentative win until he saw the first tear. _Fuck_. “Pete…” The instant he moved, Peter retreated behind his desk, further away. Tony bit back a snarl of frustration. “I get it. I do.” He really did. But that didn’t mean that the sight of Peter crying, arms wrapped around himself because he needed to be held but didn’t want Tony near him, wasn’t threatening his sanity. “You have every right to be angry at me—”

“You can’t—You don’t get to say those things when I…” Peter raised both hands in a frantic display of frustration. “I poured out my heart to you and you turned me down, and now, you just…” He made a distressed noise and clenched both hands into fists. “It’s been years, and you could—You—I told you how I felt when I was seventeen—”

“You were too young at the time,” Tony cut in, jumping on to the number like it was a lifeline. "Pete—"

“What about when I turned nineteen, then? What about last August, when I turned twenty-one?”

Tony was sure he’d had reasons to deny himself for all those years, but he couldn’t think of any single one right now.

Peter turned his back to him. “I didn’t care about your reasons then, and I don’t care about them now. You recruited me when I was fourteen—”

“I admit that wasn’t one of my best decisions.”

“And if you trust me in a fight, with _both_ our lives, you have to trust that I know what I want,” Peter went on, ignoring the interruption. “You have to trust that I understand the meaning of the age difference, and that I can handle your working binges and panic attacks. I know that you’re a former alcoholic, and that you almost slip sometimes. I used to spend time with you as your friend, and I saw you. All of you. The good, the bad, and the extraordinary.” He sniffed, turned half around, eyes trained on the glass shards littering the floor. “I told you how I felt, and you said no, and now..." Bitterness entered his voice. "You’re here, five years later, as though I’ve grown up more in that time than in the three years before that." He picked up a pen. "Did you _forget_ that I fought against _and_ with the Avengers? Weren't you there with me on Titan, when I _died in your arms_?! 

Tony felt like he’d been stabbed with one of those wicked pieces of glass and half expected blood to cover his hand as he clutched his chest. “I know the kind of life you’ve had by the time you were seventeen, k—Peter,” he rushed to amend, watching Peter's shoulders tense. “I doubt you’ve dated much. So I wanted to give you time to figure out what you wanted, explore your options—”

“You gave me time,” Peter snarled, and crushed the pen in his hand. When he let it drop, his hand was stained with dark ink. “You made that call, without asking if I wanted to be revived—”

Nausea rolled through Tony’s stomach. “Peter," he choked. 

“But you did it anyway, and I’m grateful, but that’s all the extra time I’ve ever wanted.”

 _Not the time to fuck around and find someone else_ , Tony translated, and felt the floor tilt under his feet. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want your apology.”

 _Then what am I supposed to do?!_ Tony willed himself to remain calm. At least, Peter wasn’t actively kicking him out. More importantly, he’d stopped crying. He was even looking at him now. Accusatory, but confused. Angry…

Tony really wished the hopefulness wasn’t a trick of the lights.

“How can I make it up to you?”

Peter rounded the desk and hopped on top of it, the motion elegant, bewitching. If he’d asked, Tony would have kneeled at his feet right now. Scratch that: he would have crawled across the room to him, creaking joints be damned, and licked Peter’s boots. Or the ink off his hand.

“What if I don’t want you anymore?”

Tony froze. As unexpected as the words were—a lack of imagination on his part—it was the slightly mocking tone that really got to him. Cruelty was beyond Peter, always had been. But the wryness was enough for his cheeks to burn with shame.

 _Old man_.

He looked down at himself, at the expensive fabric hiding the aging flesh, the ineluctable softening of his belly. His cock was soft in his pants, and he knew that in a decade at best, he would need something extra to get hard. By then, Peter would be thirty-one, not even in his prime. _The suit_ , Tony thought, desperate and ashamed, mentally rushing through some extra options of his own to make himself more appealing to a much younger partner. He could—

“Tony.”

The sight of Peter standing right in front of him, a familiar crease of concern between his brows, only turned up the shame a few notches. _Old man._ “You’re right.” His throat felt full of shards. Why did he think he could fix this? Of course, he couldn't. He always ended up hurting those he cared about the most. “Of course, you don't—want." His eyes burned. "I totally understand. You changed your mind. That's fine. That's great. I mean, you’re twenty-one,—” _And just got to fuck a much younger version of me, who can probably keep up with you at least to some extent._ “I…” His vision blurred, and he laughed, a hysterical sound that embedded all those shards deeper into the flesh of his throat. “I’ll.” He started for the door. Stumbled. Waved at the corridor behind him. “I’ll leave you alone now—”

“You still want me.”

It wasn’t a question, but Tony treated it like one, too intent on earning forgiveness to care about something as trivial as pride. “I’ve never stopped wanting you,” he confessed, voice hoarse. Under Peter’s intense scrutiny, he felt something strange and unfamiliar, if not entirely new: shyness. “And there’s nothing platonic, or filial, about the way I love you.”

He barely heard his own words, but of course, Peter had no such problem.

“You really don’t remember.” Peter almost sounded almost like his younger self, pre-Shuri's lab. “You don’t know what… happened. Here. With me. While you were him.”

It was nice not to be the only one struggling with the notion.

"No, I don't."

"Oh."

Peter was fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. Tony recognized it: that was the first he'd gifted Peter after he'd become CEO of his own company. That piece of clothing was made of the softest, most comfortable fabric on the market, and it was tailored to fit Peter's upper body like a glove. It was worth more than most of the shirts Tony owned himself, and something about that fact, and the sight of Peter's throat bobbing just above the collar, made him bold.

"I can, however, make an educated guess.”

Peter's fingers froze. “But you don’t know for sure," he whispered.

“You could tell me.”

The atmosphere had definitely shifted, and Tony felt anything but shame as Peter crowded him against the door. He hadn’t even heard it close, but Karen, of course, would have been watching, and anticipating Peter's desires, a whole lot better than Tony had been doing so far. 

“You know I’m him, right?” He probably should leave the talking to Peter, but tension of all kinds tended to loosen his tongue. “I did what he did, and whatever it was, I can—”

The single digit pressed to his lips wiped his mind clean of thought.

“I’m so angry at you. Both of you.” A single tear trailed down Peter’s cheek. “But _I’_ m not stupid enough to let you go.”

Tony’s heart did a painful double flip. “Does that mean—”

“Yes.”

Peter removed his finger, and replaced it with his mouth.

They kissed. Soft and slow at first, almost tentative, but it hardly took any time before Tony’s lips parted on a gasp and Peter slip his tongue inside, licking into his mouth with eager little noises. The door slid open at his back, and they stumbled into the corridor, hands at each other’s clothes, pushing and pulling—and on Peter’s part, tearing. Tony felt his shirt being ripped apart, and fuck, that was hot. Cashmere pooled at his waist, and then Peter’s hands were at his belt, yanking it from the loops of his slacks. He kicked off his boots, panting against Peter’s lips, smiling so wide he could swear his face was about to crack like overheated clay. 

"No underwear, uh?"

It sounded appreciative, and Tony felt heat gather in his loins at the sight of Peter licking his lips.

"All the Spiderman ones are in the wash," he deadpanned.

Peter smiled, that tentatively smug smile Tony had really missed these past few years. When Tony got his mouth on Peter again, they were both naked, and Peter's cock was rock hard. How could he possibly care that he was fifty-eight and not twenty-three when the kid rutted against his thigh for a handful of seconds before spilling himself with a cry or relief? Tony held him as tightly as he dared, relishing the mouth at his throat and the wet heat trickling down his thigh. He was still hard, but having Peter seek his pleasure like this, impatient, desperate, _using him,_ was worth at least a thousand orgasms. If he'd believed in God, he could swear he'd died after all, and this was heaven. 

A soft sigh reached his ears.

“That’s… wow. Okay, I know that was sort of quick, and I swear it's not always—”

“You're perfect,” Tony cut him gently, and tilted Peter's chin up to pepper his flushed face with reverent, affectionate kisses. “Your alacrity is the highest compliment.”

“That’s what you said the first time, too…”

The pang of jealousy was unsurprising, but unwarranted, so he pretended it wasn’t there. _Practice makes perfect, and all that._ “Do you want to go again?”

Peter’s answer was to lead him to the bedroom. He was giggling as he hopped on the mattress, and Tony couldn’t recall ever hearing such a cute noise in his life. He caught the hand Peter was holding out to him, and gasped, half-surprised, half-aroused, as Peter _yanked_. The kid barely didn't move from his spot on the bed, and yet he lifted a man who had thirty pounds on him off the ground like he weighed nothing. It was hot. Tony said as much.

“You liked it back then, too.”

Tony almost asked the ten-million-dollar question, but the way Peter kissed him just then, deep and passionate and non-equivocally loving, made it clear that whatever this _other_ Tony made him feel, he _loved_ and _wanted_ the fifty-eight-year-old man currently in his bed. Tony could get behind that. In time, he might not even be jealous of himself anymore, which was stupid anyway.

“Tell me what you want,” he purred, nibbling at Peter’s ear. He was lying on top of him, which Peter seemed to like, if the hard-on pressing into his belly was anything to go by. “Anything.” He pretended to be deep in thought, and used the moment to remind himself that he still had _it_. The skills. The charm. “I'm pretty open-minded. Just forget any circus-worthy contortionism position. _You_ can handle that part.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Arousal shot up Tony’s spine, and he gripped Peter’s sides a little harder without meaning to. Fuck, the _mouth_ on that kid… Peter hadn’t even blushed as he’d said the words. He’d never been demure, although he'd certainly been insecure at times. The kid—young man, definitely a man—staring at him with heat in his eyes was no such thing, and Tony allowed himself half a second to mourn the seventeen-year-old Peter he’d more or less shoved into a hastily-made chrysalis. The creature who’d emerged from it was a wonder to behold, but Tony had loved every version of Peter from the bottom of his heart. Had he been right to say no at the time? He couldn’t dwell on this moral conundrum right now, or it’d kill his erection, and Peter had made it very clear that he had plans for it. Him. _Them._

“Where’s your secret stash?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“First drawer on your right.”

The bottle of lube was easy to find, which was a relief. It was also half empty, which gave Tony mixed feelings. The glaring absence of condoms was a little worrisome. Perhaps Peter kept them elsewhere?

“Condoms?”

Was Peter… blushing? Tony shrugged. “It’s okay. I have some on me.” He hunted down his pants and emptied the back pocket before hurrying back to the bedroom.

Peter was now leaning against the mountain of pillows against the headboard, one leg extended in front of him, the other curled toward his chest, an arm propped casually on his knee. He was a vision, and if not for the way his right fist was curled around the sheets in a clear display of nerves, Tony would have stared his fill.

“Hey, you're okay?”

“Of course.”

Tony could tell Peter was lying, and the way Peter glanced away told him that Peter was aware he’d been made.

 _Fuck._ His throat locked up, and he forced himself to relax, to swallow, to breathe. If he wanted to fix whatever he'd just done, he needed to know when he'd messed up, and what. “Did I do something I shouldn’t have?”

“No, no, it's not that."

“Is this about the condom?”

Peter’s shoulders slumped.

The obvious conclusion Tony reached wasn’t one he liked at all, but he knew how he’d been in his twenties, how careless he’d been with his own health. Hell, he still was—when Peter wasn’t involved.

“Did you… forget to use protection at some point?”

“Yes, but not for the reason you think.” Peter’s gaze was pleading. “If I’d been entirely human, I would have used a condom. But I… can’t catch diseases.”

Tony blinked. That actually made a lot of sense. Still, he was a gentleman when he wanted to, so he tossed the square foil wrapper to Peter, whose hand jerked up lightning-fast to catch it.

“Do _you_ want to use one?” Peter asked, perplexed.

“Not particularly, and I’m clean, but you said you can’t catch diseases, not that you can’t transmit them.”

A flush crept up Peter’s cheeks. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He tore the packet open with a sheepish, embarrassed smile. “Of course—”

“Hey, don’t apologize.” Tony stopped him before he could unroll the condom. “Let’s not assume anything, okay? Talk science to me.”

“You’re already hard.”

Who would have thought the day would come when Peter Parker flirted to avoid a serious conversation about _fluids_? Under other circumstances, Tony might have been amused. “Just tell me, Pete." He squeezed his hand, aiming for reassurance. "I promise I’m very invested in your perspective.”

“Fine.” Peter huffed, but he was letting the pillows at his back to their job, now, instead of doing the job for them. “I did tests. Several, over the years. I can’t carry anything that could harm you. Well, nothing from Earth, I guess. Diseases from space…” He glanced at the window, and at the stars perhaps _he_ could see. “I can’t really tell about those STDs.”

“We’ll deal with the alien plague when we get there.” Tony plucked the condom Peter that had more or less half torn in a fit of nerves and tossed it to the floor. “I’m clean, you’re clean, and that’s great. But we can still use a condom, if you'd prefer not to do it raw.”

“I broke it.”

“I have others, and that’s not the point,” Tony corrected gently. “What do you _want_?”

“I want to feel you in me.”

Tony refused to be distracted by the words, and listened to the slight hesitation in Peter’s tone instead. “Sweetheart, we don't have to...” Peter’s eyes filled up with tears, and Tony quickly backpedaled. “Shouldn’t I call you that?”

Peter blinked rapidly, and caught one of his hands to lace their fingers together. “No, that's... You can. Please do.”

It took a couple of seconds for Tony to connect the dots. The other him. Of course, Peter was thinking about _him_. 

“You can…” This wasn’t easy, but also, it should be, so Tony told his fucking ego to suck it up and said the words that Peter apparently needed to be told. “It’s okay, if you… think about him, when you’re with me.”

“It’s weird.”

“We can handle weird just fine,” Tony said, and brushed Peter’s wet cheeks with his thumb. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Talking of first times and strange things…” Peter was blushing again. “There’s something else you should know…”

In retrospect, Tony supposed he could have considered the notion that super strength may extend to _all_ the muscles in Peter’s body. His fantasies might have gone down a different path if he hadn’t made a conscious effort not to spend too many waking hours considering the unparalleled glory of Peter’s anatomy.

“I don’t think you can break my dick if you haven’t broken his," he said, trying to be reasonable and clear-headed about this despite all those sexy (and painful) ideas multiplying in his mind. "And I don’t think you did... Did you?”

“Of course not!” Peter sputtered. 

For someone who’d been worried about the integrity of Tony’s dick a second ago, Peter sure sounded insulted to have his ability to control himself put into question. Tony hid a smile. Honestly, this night was turning out a lot better than he could have hoped, which mostly confirmed his theory that Peter was too good for this world in general, and himself in particular.

“Did you break any other dick?” he asked, and relished the eye-roll that teasing remark earned him. “No names, though. Dicks should remain nameless.”

“ _No_.”

“Then you have nothing to be worried about, do you?”

The expected relief didn’t come, as Peter kept clenching and unclenching his hands around two fistfuls of sheets. All that super strength... _Oh._ Peter probably had to keep a leash on it when he was aroused, and of course, exercising self-control would keep him from truly enjoying himself during penetrative sex. Had Peter broken sex toys before? Tony's mouth went dry. Somehow, the mental picture of Peter going through a series of dildos incredibly more robust and _still_ breaking every single one of them because he couldn’t help himself in the throes of passion just made him more impatient to fuck Peter’s brains out.

“If…” He rose to his knees and pulled Peter’s wandering hands on his thighs, stilling them with soothing caresses. “And I mean _if_ at some point you’d like to really relinquish control and actively try to let go, and possibly break some dick in the process, then those may come in handy.” He tapped at his chest, and watched Peter’s eyes widen—and darken—in understanding. “The nanites can take any shape I will, and more importantly… they’ve been designed to withstand threats a lot more dangerous than your tight little hole.”

“Oh my God,” Peter gasped.

Precum spurted at his tip, a whole lot more than the single droplet beading at Tony’s own slit. “You like that idea, uh?” Tony groaned in appreciation.

“Y-Yeah, I really do.”

“Good.” Tony's voice had gotten rough like it did when he was really turned on, and he licked his lips as he gathered all that generous precum on his thumb. He brought the digit to his mouth, and felt Peter’s eyes zero on his lips as he sucked it clean. “Just as sweet as the rest of you.”

Peter’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, Tony felt deliciously afraid as he spied the predator lurking behind’s the young man’s gentle nature.

“Kiss me,” Peter asked, no, _demanded_.

Tony was on him in a heartbeat. He licked into Peter’s mouth like a man on a mission, which he was, after a fashion. This was a whole new set of steps in their dance, and he was allowed to lead, and show Peter how much he meant to him, and fuck, what a delight that was. His mind was full of static as the kiss turned ravenous, and teeth got into play. He felt as though his heart may explode, and he’d never been so glad at the prospect of a heart attack. 

When they parted for air, he had one hand on Peter’s cock, and the other on a nipple, flicking the bud teasingly. Peter’s pupils were completely blown, and if Tony had thought he could drown in those eyes before, he certainly was now. Somehow, the sensation was exhilarating rather than frightening.

“You’ve got such pretty nipples.”

“P-Please, Tony, I need you inside me.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Tony allowed himself a second to admire the mess Peter was making. His fist was slick around Peter’s dick, and he wondered how it would feel, to open himself up on Peter’s precum alone, and welcome the hot, rigid length of him inside him afterwards. To be _made_ to take it, to have Peter pressing his face down into the mattress and drilling into him until Tony’s ass was so wonderfully _used_ that walking would be awkward at best. It had been years, since he’d allowed someone to fuck him. He could hardly remember how it felt, and he couldn’t wait for Peter to remind him. If Peter wanted to. He had a feeling he would, but all in good time.

“How do you want to do this, sweetheart?"

“On my back, with you on top," Peter said without the slightest hesitation.

“Thinking about that contortionism I mentioned earlier?”

The look he got in return was pure challenge. Lips curled up in a suggestive smile, Tony retreated to the foot of the bed to grab the lube he’d abandoner earlier. Peter lay down on his back in the middle of the bed with alluring ease, and reached for a pillow to place under his hips. The ease with which he folded himself in half, fingers hooked at the back of his unmarred thighs, made for an arousing display of flexibility.

And then Tony’s eyes traveled down to another sight worthy of praise, Peter’s pink hole completely exposed.

“Is that enough contortionism for you?” Peter drawled.

Tony drank in the sight of pure, unadulterated perfection laid out _for_ him and tried to compute the words Peter had just said. Somehow, it wasn’t working.

“… Tony?”

Right. Words. A question. He’d been asked a question. “How long can you hold that position?”

With a casual shrug, Peter pulled at his legs, parting his thighs a couple more inches. “A few hours? I guess?”

 _A few_ hours. _Fuck._ Tony almost dropped the lube, but he was a consumed professional, and he managed to slather his cock in record time, only pumping it twice—partly because he was in a hurry, and partly because he didn’t want to come like an overly eager twenty-three-year-old. He may not be as flexible as he’d once been, but he was still very fit and more than able to keep up with Peter… if he gave the sweet boy several orgasms first. He was going to rock Peter’s world in bed, thanks to his _lengthy_ experience and _hard-worn_ stamina. This was absolutely _not_ him comparing himself to the other Tony who'd been in this bed first.

“Do you mind if I…” _worship_ “…rim you first?”

“You want to?”

Tony arched a brow, incredulous and a little concerned. He didn’t want to assume the worst. He’d _done_ some foreplay in his youth, after all, but he’d been so eager to fuck most of the time, and… “Did the other me... treat you well?”

“He was very good in bed.”

Tony hid a wince by pressing a kiss to Peter's soft inner thigh, hands roaming proprietarily over the young man's sides. “I remember how I was back then, and I want to make sure that he didn’t just shove it in and left you unsatisfied.”

“He certainly did _not,_ ” Peter snorted. “‘shove it in’. Or leave me unsatisfied.”

Jealousy reared its ugly head again, but Tony refused to let the bad blood between himself and, well, his other self, ruin his relationship with Peter. Yes, Peter’s loyalty to this younger Tony was infuriating, but he supposed he could find it flattering, too—this consistency in Peter’s feelings.

“Good.”

“ _Good?_ ” Peter un-pretzeled himself in a manner that should probably be listed in the Book of Guinness Records (Avengers Editions) and shoved Tony onto his back with a single finger. The raw strength backing what could only be called a nudge made Tony extra glad he’d opted for the mature reaction.

“I know the reputation you had back then.” Peter straddled him and placed a hand over the nanite housing unit in Tony’s chest. Exasperation flashed in his eyes, followed… fondness? “I’ve read up on you, a few years back. But you know what?” His fingernails clicked on the metal case. “ _He_ was very thoughtful, and he gave me exactly what I needed. He may have been selfish and immature in some ways, but he cared, and he cared for me. I loved… love him." Determination colored his voice. "You have to accept that. How could I love only one version of you when I’ve always loved all of you?”

It was more magnanimity than Tony deserved. _Any_ of him. “I’m trying,” he said, but it wasn’t enough, so he tried again. “It's just that I'm…”

 _Older_.

Peter cupped his cheek, and his thumb reached the corner of his eyes, caressing over the lines Tony saw each day in the mirror. “He left so you could be with me, isn’t that what you said?” He was smiling at him, and _this_ smile was an echo of the one he’d had around Tony years ago, before everything happened. It was _Mr. Stark_ ’s smile, awed and bright, precious, and Tony had really thought he’d never seen it again.

His heart stuttered. “Did I tell you how perfect you are?” he choked, and Peter’s smile grew brighter still.

The kiss that followed was languid, unhurried, right until the moment it wasn’t. Tony gave Peter a parting peck on the nose just to hear that cute giggle again, and then led Peter onto his hands and knees.

“I know you want to be on your back when I make love to you, but prep will be easier this way,” he said very seriously, and nudged Peter’s asscheeks apart gently, marveling at the way Peter’s whole body shivered in anticipation. “Just tell me if there’s anything you don’t like.”

“I don’t think that’s going to— _oh, God._ ”

Tony gave a firmer lick across Peter’s hole, nails digging into those perfect asscheeks, and listened intently to every little noise that Peter made, ears perked for any indication of discomfort or displeasure. None came.

“Oh, oh, yes, wow, _more_ —”

Tony pressed his tongue past the rim with an eager grunt and began lapping at the sensitive walls with more urgency than skill, which didn’t seem to put off Peter at all. He ate him out like he was a buffet and Tony hadn’t fed in weeks, and it felt so good, to listen to Peter’s breathy gasps of pleasure, to feel his hole clench so wonderfully tightly around his tongue. The young man was wet and slick inside, and he tasted precisely the way an addiction might feel: a burning tug deep in the gut, a sharpening of the senses, a single-minded focus to _have more_. He could picture it so easily: how he’d spend whole evenings with Peter riding his tongue on _their_ bed, chasing the pleasure Tony was all too willing to offer.

“Please, Tony, ah… G-God, Mr. Stark!”

His gut tightened with arousal as Peter’s moans rose in pitch, caressing around his name, a mix of _Tony’s_ and _Mr. Stark’s_ that made him angry and hungry for more of both.

When Peter climaxed with a whimper, he had beard burn all over his ass. Tony's hand flew to the base of his cock, giving it a punishing squeeze to postpone his own orgasm. His tongue tingled, and he half-wished his jaw felt stretched. 

Peter didn’t let him any time to offer.

“In me, now,” he said, rolling onto his back.

“Soon," Tony promised, and pressed a first finger to his rim.

The young man was wonderfully responsive, and Tony made a mental note to bring him to climax by fingering alone sometime in the near future. While he added in a second finger even slicker than the first, he teased a nipple with his mouth, flicking his tongue at the taut bud until Peter's gripped the short hair at his nape and tugged sharply. It stung. Tony bit down reflexively. At first, he feared he'd hurt Peter, and was about to apologize, but those gorgeous brown eyes were full of heat as they met his. 

“T-Tony...”

The way Peter’s voice broke on his name made it sound even better. Tony’s twisted his fingers inside the tight channel he’d explored with his tongue earlier, rubbing the young man’s prostate until the whole bed _shook_ from Peter’s writhing.

“Tony, _come on_!” 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Peter's hips bucked wildly. “I believe we established that if somebody was going to be hurt, it wasn’t me, so please, will you fuck me already?”

“Bossy in bed, are we?”

“You have _no_ idea.”

Later, Tony would wonder if Peter had known what he was doing. If he’d hinted at the other him on purpose. Probably not. Maybe. The challenging gleam in Peter’s eyes was shifting, turning into that sweet—and hot—need to please. Tony coated his cock with more lube, just in case, before guiding his cock to Peter’s hole.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his own need to please lacing the words with adoration.

He pressed in.

Every last thought of taking this slow, to try and show Peter in the span of minutes how much love he’d kept for himself during all those years, left his mind as Peter snapped his hips upwards in a powerful thrust, sheathing the whole length in one smooth glide. Tony bottomed out with a shocked gasp. Peter felt… divine. The grip at the back of his head, the warm hand splayed over his chest, the fierce look in Peter’s eyes… It all was. And it was all _his_.

“Fuck me, Tony.”

“I like… _love_ that bossy you,” Tony gasped, and set about giving Peter what he wanted.

It wasn’t long before the bed was shaking again.

Tony focused on Peter’s reactions to his thrusts, and adjusted the angle and the depth accordingly. Yeah, responsive wasn’t covering it, and Tony found himself mesmerized by every manifestation of Peter’s pleasure: the sheen of sweat on his sculpted torso, the blatant hunger in his eyes, his messy hair, his gasps of rapture and the requests inserted in between… As much as he’d fantasized about a blushing Peter, and pictured all the ways he could seduce the innocence out of him —as much as he’d jerked off to that awe in Peter’s eyes, and how it could translate in the bedroom—he was very, very willing to be ordered around like this.

“Oh God, Tony, just like this, here, come on, _harder_ …"

He was supposed to have stamina, but Peter didn’t make it easy on him. Looking down at the flushed youth spread wide in his bed, willingness and want carved in every curve and edges, Tony found himself seriously envying his younger self. Take out thirty years, or even just twenty, hell, a _single decade_ , and he would have been able to take off the edge whichever way Peter preferred before giving it to him nice and slow, or fast and hard. Come twice inside him, without having to wait a whole night in between.

The suit could do that for him, after a little tinkering.

Yes, the suit was definitely going to be handy.

“… Tony, please, I need—”

“I’ve got you, baby,” he babbled, feeling hot and needed and just where he wanted to be. “You feel so good, so hot, fuck, you’re so tight, so perfect, that’s it, baby, fuck, you’re a sight…” He pinched a nipple, and Peter made a mewling sound that shot straight to his cock. “You like that, uh? He tweaked his other nipple, and felt Peter's channel spasm around him. "Having your nipples roughened up a little?” He licked his lips. "Anything else I should know?"

"H-Harder."

Peter looked positively _wrecked_. Tony had to put an early stop to the dirty talk, because hell, he was getting winded. At least he could see Peter’s body moving up toward the headboard a little more with every thrust. _Harder_ , Peter had said, and Tony was doing his very best to deliver. He’d never been so rough with anyone before, but Peter kept _begging_ , his pretty cock leaking more and more as Tony increased the strength of his thrusts, and _fuck_ , yes, okay, now his dick kind of hurt. Gritting his teeth, Tony refused to slow down even though Peter's ass had tightened so much around him it _kept hurting_ , and he was glad for it, because a few seconds later Peter was coming with an awed _Mr. Stark!_

"K-Keep going," he gasped. "Please."

 _Fuck._ Tony kept drilling into his ass with single-minded determination. It was certainly no hardship, especially with how Peter's latest orgasm had made him loose and relaxed _everywhere._ He thrust inside him with increasingly louder moans and grunts of his own, so close to his own release, and no, yes, okay, all right,it wasn't a trick of the lights—Peter was ready to go _again._ “I love you, Pete. So—So fucking… much.” His rhythm faltered as he reached for the cute cock trapped between their bodies and started jerking it off, reverent but a little rough on the upstrokes, like he’d learned Peter liked. “Can you come again? Yeah?" He felt his own balls tightened. "Do it, then. _Come for me."_

Peter cried out and did precisely that, orgasming on Tony's fucking command. For the first time tonight, Tony stopped focusing on getting Peter off and began to chase his own pleasure, not really aiming his thrusts anymore, just fucking into Peter like a madman, nails digging into the back of his thighs, pulling and pushing, holding, claiming.

“Your… turn.”

“ _Pete_ ,” Tony gasped.

The young man had planted his feet on the bed and was now meeting Tony’s every thrust. His eyes were glazed over, the smile in them so bright that Tony ached, and he wanted to say it again, _loveyouloveyouloveyou_ , but he couldn’t speak, struggled to breathe, and it was fine, more than fine, that he should drown in that feeling of pure, unadulterated—

Peter gripped the back of his head and looked him square in the eye. “I t-think that I was… the first person you allowed to… fuck you.”

_Oh._

Tony came so hard he may have passed out for a second or two. When he became aware of his surroundings again, he realized that he’d collapsed atop Peter. A hand was carding through his hair, soft and gentle. Peter was grinning in his neck. Tony could feel it. He gave a weak chuckle, contentment spreading through his limbs. He couldn’t recall a single orgasm more satisfying than this one, and he’d spent decades having sex.

The afterglow made it impossible to lament his age.

“You like that? The idea that I was your first?” Peter teased, echoing his words from earlier.

“You know me better than myself, baby,” Tony rasped. His brain full of cotton-candy, all of his thoughts sweet. There was no room for jealousy, or worry, or anything that wasn’t Peter’s happiness. His own happiness.

“Tired?” Peter asked.

Tony snapped his mouth shut, but he’d already yawned. “I guess.” He chose to blame the recent bout of insomnia, rather than this ridiculous long refractory period he was subjected to. “Did you want to—”

“Sleep sounds nice,” Peter said, and nuzzled his neck with a happy little sigh.

Tony rolled off of him, and cleaned Peter’s belly with a corner of the sheets before wrapping the young man in his arms. Another yawn stretched his jaw. Peter wriggled a bit, and then turned around so they faced each other.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?”

“No,” Tony replied, voice firm and steady. Titan was over. Telling Peter _no_ when he meant _yes_ was a thing of the past. “Never again.”

It was lie, of course, but one that Tony would spend the rest of his life trying to prove wrong. It was possible. There were actual gods out there, after all, with a much longer lifespan than humans. Bodies could be replicated, consciousness transferred. He’d figure it out. 

“I’m staying,” he added, and felt acute relief when Peter hugged him fiercely. “Until you…” His throat clicked. “Get sick of me.”

“I won’t."

Peter sounded so certain that Tony had to believe him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that the apology department doesn’t accept requests today, but I’m submitting one anyway.”

In the semi-darkness, Peter's eyes glowed like amber. One of his hands drifted down to cover Tony's hip. “Are you... hurt anywhere?”

“Only if you kick me out of your bed," Tony replied easily, misunderstanding on purpose. His dick didn’t hurt. Not enough for him to mention it. It was kind of interesting, that pain. What it meant. More importantly, he didn't want Peter to regret anything. “Are you going to? I've been told I snore?”

Peter's lips twitched. “If you do, I’ll just suck you awake or something.”

“You give the best incentives, Mr. Parker.”

Peter snuggled closer and buried his face in the crook of Tony’s neck.

“’night, Tony.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

In a matter of minutes, he was asleep, and the concern lining his brow was gone. Tony remained as still as he could, unwilling to disrupt this quiet peace. This... miracle. Closing his eyes, he picked through his memories. His twenties were a messy period in his life. Too many drugs, too many one-night-stands, too many blacks out. A single trip in time. He half-mourned the amnesia he’d given himself, even though he knew what a blessing it truly was.

The jealousy was gone.

“I love you,” he whispered in the darkness.

The hand on his hip tightened. 

**The end**

***Bonus scene***

At six in the morning, Tony woke up with Peter in his arms, and a question on his mind. “Does he still like his pancakes with chocolate chips and too much maple syrup?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yes, but that’s not what really matters to him."

“I’m hearing you loud and clear, Karen.”

There was a pause.

“Friday let me know that your schedule has been cleared for the day. Ms. Potts has been told that you’re taking some time off, and MJ has just sent you an email to let you know that she’s quite capable with a spoon.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s meant to be.”

Tony smiled. Getting the shovel talk by one of his AIs was… unexpectedly satisfying.

Peter stirred. “Tony?”

 _Thank you_ , Tony mouthed at the camera near the ceiling. “Good morning, sweetheart. Do you want to sleep some more, or do you want breakfast?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a wild journey (read: I never wrote a multi-chaptered fic this long so fast) and I hope you enjoyed being on that angsty, bumpy ride as much as I had fun (and struggled, at times) designing it! Thank y'all for your kudos and comments :)
> 
> (If you're still in a time-travel mood, there's this [shorter fix-it fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18638533) I wrote, which features Peter traveling back in time to meet a younger Tony at MIT.)


End file.
